


Matricide is All Right (when it's Destiny)

by chatonnerie



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Characters Added When They Appear, Consistently Bad Weather, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, I will endeavour to have as many people as possible show up, Jarvan has issues, League characters in Skyrim, Shyvana has issues, TW: Blood, Yvva is Alduin, essentially all of Kumungu are there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-10-08 07:52:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatonnerie/pseuds/chatonnerie
Summary: Shyvana's a Dunmer with questionable parentage and an unnecessarily loud outdoor Voice.Jarvan's an Imperial with an identity crisis and a head every Thalmor in Skyrim wants removed.Together, they'll survive a hellfire, avoid assassins and slay the most dangerous creature in all of Skyrim.All whilst staying completely professional.





	1. Jarvan's Bad Day

Jarvan had always disliked Skyrim’s weather.

It was cold, miserable, more grey skies than not, and the ever-expanding mountain ranges always promised frigid airs coiling through the valleys no matter what part of the country you passed through.

The cart hit a bump in the old road and they all jolted, freezing pig iron manacles biting into his wrists.

Of course, there were other things he could be mad about. Much more relevant and important than just the shitty ever-winter of Tamriel’s northernmost country. However, he didn’t quite feel like thinking about the things that were _relevant_ or _important_ , especially if they were accompanied by thoughts of _failure_ and  _guilt_ so the weather would have to endure the brunt of his increasingly depressed mood.

“That’d be right, wouldn’t it?” across from him, a Winter’s Claw barbarian was hunched off, his muscle mass almost comical amidst the raggedy garbs they’d been stripped down and made to wear. Jarvan’s eyes turned to what had caught his ire, blinking as droplets of rain tapped his face without warning.

“Off to the chopping block and the gods won’t even gift us a final snow,” the barbarian shook his head, “Skyrim’s been truly forsaken.”

“All because of a bit of rain?” his throat was course and weak even to his own ears, and his dead expression didn’t change as the barbarian turned his sneer to him.

“What would you know, Imperial?” he jeered, “All your lot know how to do is hide behind your White Walls when the Concordat doomed the whole of Tamriel.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at his nails, cracked from the cold, and posture glum. The barbarian sniffed.

“Should have just stayed safe in Cyrodiil, _boy_.”

Cyrodiil.

As brutally as an arrow in flesh, his carefully constructed barrier was pierced by the mere thought.

It had been almost a month since he had ridden out from the White City, leaving

the southern jungles of his homeland to venture into the contentious borderlands.

( _Ambushed_ )

He wondered if he was finally going to die here (unlike all the weeks before, his screams the only goals of his torturers), or if they’d cart him all the way to Summerset.

He wanted to go home (what right did he have), he needed to tell the families (that he’d killed their sons), he just _couldn’t do this_ , his father was right, he was a _fool_ -

The cart rumbled to a stop, the Frostguard driver turning to sneer at them all.

“Last stop before Oblivion, pigs.”The barbarian bristled furiously, his blonde mane twitching, whilst the third prisoner in their sorry cart was calm, collected, even dismissive of the man’s words. Jarvan just stared blankly at his manacled hands, dimly aware of those around him.

(He could remember each of their names, knew each of their faces. As their broken, mangled bodies were discarded into the pyre, he swore he’d heard their families screaming back in Cyrodiil.)

It should have been him.

“Move it, move it! We haven’t got all day!”

Rough hands shoved him further up the cart, making space for the last of the prisoners awaiting their final destination.

It  _was_ going to be him.

(A part of him wondered if he would Rise, but, realistically, he was no doubt doomed for Oblivion.)

An undernourished, reedy faced man was prodded up beside him, eyes white with fright and body shivering under their rags. The next one they didn’t even bother with.

Jarvan blinked out of his mind as the fifth prisoner was chucked onto the floor of the cart with all the care of a sack of flour, chains rattling against the ground. A call, shouts from soldiers, and then they were off, cart wheels rickety against the freshly dampened stones.

If her lack of response to the whole tossing thing wasn’t clue enough, the continued motionless as the cart bumped and trundled its way over every broken cobblestone in the depths of Skyrim betrayed her lack of consciousness.

The barbarian sneered, toeing her face to reveal skin dark as ash, with matching pigmented hair to hide pointed ears.

“A Grey Face,” he scoffed, “that’d be right.”

The other newcomer meanwhile, seemed to be staring into his own death, as he took in the sight of Sejuani, Warmother of the Winter’s Claw, the only one left in her clan’s armour, hands buried in steel manacles. Her ice white hair whistled in Skyrim’s constant breeze, and her blue eyes seared with the power of True Ice.

“I . . . I know you . . .” the thin man quivered, staring at the Warmother in terror, “You’re _Sejuani_. How did you end up here-?!”

“Quiet there!” the guard snarled, “Or you’ll bleed like a stuck pig long before we get to Helgen!”The thin man went silent, and his face contorted.

“Skyrim was fine before you came along!” he snarled (softly, _bitterly_ ), “The Frostguard wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at that stupid horse if your _war_ hadn’t gotten them so riled up-!”

“Watch your tongue, thief,” The barbarian sniffed at him. “You’re speaking to the True Queen of Skyrim. Focus on the Rise to Sovngarde with honour, lest you simply descend with regret.”

The thief just trembled, before his face crumpled and he turned to Jarvan.

“You and me? We’re not meant to be here, we got caught up-!”

“Not exactly, little thief,” under the harsh cries of the wind, Sejuani’s voice cut like a whip, “the man you’re looking at is Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth, heir apparent to the Empire of Cyrodiil. I’m sure the Thalmor are paying the Frostguard a _very_ generous amount to have his head removed.”

The thief recoiled, gaping, denial seeping in. Jarvan stared up through oily bangs to blink at the warmother. He was surprised, but maybe that was his fault. She’d gone back to ignoring them all, face tilted to the grey sky. The thief shivered, shifting and trying to avoid looking at them all. His foot bumped the prone Dunmer and a deep rumble echoed out. Black, almost purple tinted hair shifted and a face seemingly with irritation etched into its features tilted up from the ground, eyes squinting as she peered around blearily.

There was a question in her eyes and nobody else was talking.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” Jarvan asked, his Tamrielic pathetically soft and fragile, “You walked right into the Frostguard’s ambush, just like the rest of us.”

“Not me,” the thief whispered, “not me, not me.”

The Dunmer’s red eyes blinked. “. . . Skyrim?” Her voice was deep, rough, nothing like any woman of Cyrodiil.

The barbarian sneered at her.“Damn straight yer in Skyrim. Fucking Grey face refugees are everywhere.”

If he’d expected her to be cowed, she was wrong. Jarvan almost shrunk back as indignation filled the prone figure, anger flaring throughout her entire body as she struggled to her knees, unbothered by her manacles. She shoved back her shoulders, and they all could see the iron collar binding her neck, blocking magika. She spat something at him in Daedric, voice harsh and scathing, the daemonic language whipping the air.

The barbarian just pulled up his lips.

“Gods forsaken cultist.”Her expression curdled and her gaze turned to fix on Jarvan. He froze under the burning red gaze, before blinking. Mer pupils were no different to those of men, but she had razor thin slits, something much more fitting on an Argonian than a Dunmer.

Very much like a mouse freezing under the gaze of a snake, he almost missed her rasping words, spat in his native Imperial.

“Remind that unwashed cunt that Daedric worship is standard for my kind, and if he has an issue with such, he’s perfectly welcome to walk his Talos kissing ass up to the Thalmor so they can jam an axe down its centre.”

“What’s she saying?” the barbarian demanded and Jarvan paused for a moment.

“. . . She took issue in your comparison of the Daedra to a cult.”

The man scoffed, but they all quieted as the driver turned and snarled at them all again.

(Jarvan’s entire body shivered at the sound, mind conjuring sensations of being strapped to whipping posts, as Thalmor alchemists drained his lifeblood into vials for who knows what.)

The cart went over another askew cobblestone and they all just stared in directions, each trying to come to terms with themselves.

The Dunmer visibly startled, ears tilting immediately up, head whipping to the sky, eyes burning as she scanned it. They all stared at her, even the Warmother with her eyes of ice. Jarvan cleared his throat.“What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you hear that?” she instead replied, and under the aggression, he could sense fear, “Didn’t any of you hear that roar?”

“Roar?” he echoed.

“What roar?” the thief demanded, voice uneasy, and he belatedly realised he’d switched back to Tamrielic.

The barbarian sat back, gaze distant, “The roar of the Hall of Valor awaiting us, no doubt. The Winter’s Claw won’t hand over our freedom to those black-hearted Thalmor. Or their disgusting Frostguard sell outs. We’ve earnt out place in Sovngarde and she’s preparing to welcome us with open arms.” The thief did not look at all appeased, and the Dunmer was positively sneering. The wind howled and his chest ached and Jarvan was altogether ready for the end.

 

Huge wooden gates greeted the train of carts, rolling into the small mountain town.

The barbarian grunted. “Helgen. That’d be right, wouldn’t it?”

The villagers gathered around the streets, mothers pulling thrilled children back behind their legs, whereas Nords clad in the colours of the Frostguard trailed the procession of carts, yelling obscenities at the rebels. Right on the far wall, backed by the mountain soaring above, an ancient stone watchtower rose up above the straw covered courtyard. A whole battalion of Frostguard soldiers encircled the courtyard, others high atop the walls with countless bows pointed at the arriving prisoners. Before the tower, a innocuous grey boulder rested amidst the straw, and beside it an executioner swung his axe.

Boos and jeers rang out as the first cart was emptied, prisoners dragged out and bunched up against the wall.

It was no coincidence that their cart was the last to trundle to a stop, the cacophony of disdain peaking as the Warmother was shoved out. Her head was high, strides unfaltering as the emblem of the Winter’s Claw remained proudly displayed on her armour. Her soldier followed her out, standing in a line before the entire crowd of Winter’s Claw rebels that had been caught in the ambush.

As the thief was led out, now properly sobbing and whimpering, Jarvan allowed his own eyes to sweep the crowds.

Ah yes.

_There he was._

Alone amidst the Grey Steel of the Frostguard, the black armour of the Thalmor agent who had personally seen him delivered to the prisoner convoy was an ugly stain. His too sharp features were smug as he watched the heir apparent get manhandled down to await execution.

“Hey, umm, sir, she’s not on the list?” the voice jolted him out of his thoughts, to find an uneasy foot soldier helplessly scanning a folder, the Dunmer waiting dully before him, her red eyes half-lidded with disdain.

Again, her ears flicked and her eyes flashed to the sky, but Jarvan heard nothing.

A man, loudly stamped with sigils of the Frostguard, and bearing about double the amount of furred armour, came forth.

“Who cares? She was caught crossing the border and melted two of our men where they stood.”

“A Dunmer trying to get _into_ the Black Marsh?” the foot soldier echoed, disbelieving, but he shut up as his captain sent him dark look, shoving the poor kid aside to turn his scowl towards the Dunmer.

“Name.”She kept her mouth shut, lips pulled up in a sneer. He sneered back.

“Fine; Nameless. Origin; let me guess, Vvardenfall?” This time she didn’t sneer, just rolled her tongue and spat directly in his face.

Mocking laughs echoed through the rebels as he recoiled, before marching up to slap her in retaliation.

The sharp crack echoed over the courtyard, but Jarvan felt his eyebrow twitch as it was the captain who yelped, hand whipping back like it had been burnt.

“I thought you said her magika had been sealed!’ he hissed at the foot soldier, who was too terrified to do any more than nod.

Face still tilted sideway, she just looked smug.

He kicked her Jarvan’s way and she placidly settled beside him, posture now completely upright and gaze aloof and condescending of any that turned her way.

“What’s the hold up?”

Jarvan almost puked at the dulcet tones of his principal torturer, striding through the slush with the air of someone far far more deserving. The frost guard captain sneered.

“Just a Grey Face causing trouble. We’ll get to it immediately.”

“See that you do,” the Thalmor sent him one last gleeful look, before joining the loose circle of authority around the executioner’s block.

“Step up to the block when we call your name! One at a time, and no pushing!” the captain ordered.

Sejuani finally released the faintest of emotions, a minor scoff.

“Lissandra and her damn lists.”

 The foot soldier read off a name from his sheet. The corresponding rebel marched forward boldly, pausing to bow to his Warmother.

“It has been an honour, my Queen.”

“A Queen isn’t made by abusing the Voice to usurp the throne!” A commander snapped, “Today, your rebellion is crushed, and Skyrim will be restored. Get the last rites started.”A Priestess of Arkay stepped forward, hands going up.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherious, may the blessings of the eight divines-”

“If I’m going to die, then it ain’t after I’ve listened to this crap,” the rebel marched forward of his own accord, elbowing past the priestess to the chopping block.

She cut off, irritated, and Jarvan internally wrestled with memories of the Temple of Light, days spent antagonising the priests in favour of lessons.

The Dunmer’s ears flickered, and her expression grew even more sour.

The executioner’s axe came down cleanly, and cheers echoed from the villagers as the man’s head rolled, the rebels silent. Guards quickly moved to clear the body, and as they stepped aside, Jarvan forcefully refocused, eyeing the straight line to the path that led out of Helgen. Jarvan’s mind flickered over the lone path, back out into the wilderness, towards the south bound passage that would lead him back to Cyrodiil.

As another Winter’s Claw head hit the ground, the cheers climaxed and he bunched his muscles.

And then he stumbled as a hand aggressively grabbed his wrist, yanking him hard enough to wrench off his balance.

“ _No_.” the Dunmer growled, voice fierce and Jarvan sent her a furious glance only to stumble as the thief took off from beside him.

“I won’t die like this! You won’t take me alive!”

He was fast, even with bound hands, further up the path than Jarvan would have been.

The Frostguard commander lazily sent him a look. “Archers!”

The prisoners all went silent as the thief hit the ground hard, a black arrow sticking out from his back. The captain turned back to the lot of them.

“Anyone else feel like running? Will save us some of the formality.” No one moved, and Jarvan sent his neighbour a small look, before nodding gratefully. She just released his wrist and went back to paying far more attention to the sky than her impending death.

Again, Jarvan followed her gaze and found nothing.

“The Imperial next,” the black-armoured Thalmor waved a bored hand, “The Grand-General wants his head - the sooner we get it, the sooner we can leave.”

“You heard the man,” a sharp point dug into his back and he was marched up to the stone, the previous body still getting kicked aside, “on your knees, _Your Majesty_.”

The guard hissed it in his ear, tone dripping in condescending acid, as he was made to stand before the small little stone, the Thalmor ambassador watching him smugly.

Ah.

He really wished they hadn’t said that. With the mention of his title came the drawling of his tutors, preaching how a Prince should be holding his head high, fearless of death and not giving his captors one inch of satisfaction.

He continued to stare down at the little stone, all his failures hanging off his shoulders.

He was so _tired_.

And then the alarms sounded.

Bells rang, long and loud over the crowd, chaos rising as the tethered horses immediately startled, straining and shrieking against the ropes, hunting dogs baying from their cages and civilians all screaming and fleeing into their houses. Amidst the surprise and sudden stirs of Frotstguard soldiers struggling to regain calm, a scout ran in.

“Ambush!” he yelled over the assembled racket, “Armoured Cavalry! Imperial colours! They’re coming fast from the southwest!”

The Thalmor straightened, expression curdling, as his eyes snapped back to the bound prince, “They’re after him! Get men out there, re-route them. I want his head before they get into-!” He cut himself off sharply, as the tower guard, formerly atop Helgen’s watchtower, slammed into the ground near to them, a distinct arrow stuck out from his head. Jarvan’s heart skipped a beat in shock, as alarmed cries surrounded him.

That was the fletching of the Dauntless Vanguard.

 _Garen_.

Wild raw hope filled his system, almost as vicious as the warring shock that anyone would come so far after a disgraced General. His lungs heaved as new oxygen flowed, his heart beating at a speed it hadn’t in weeks. Yet before he could take so much as a step, rough hands dragged him to his knees, holding his arms out behind his back, sweaty leather gloves gripping his neck.

“We’ve engaged them at the Southern Wall,” a Frostguard reported, “but we can’t hold them off much longer. At the rate they’re going, they’ll overrun the town.”

“Then kill the Warmother!” the Frostguard Captain demanded, “Hand them back the Imperial. Our goal here was to break the Winter’s Claw-”

“Your ‘goal’ here,” the Thalmor snarled immediately, “is to do as I say! And High Command wants _his head_ to be delivered to Alinor!”

Under the screaming, Jarvan’s head throbbed, his body trembling with adrenaline even as he was held down, the execution axe swinging mesmerizingly near him as the hooded man waited. The prisoners were all shifting, the guards holding up bows to threaten them to remain still, as the sounds of battle echoed on the far side of Helgen.

And perfectly still in the midst of the chaos, the Dunmer’s head was tipped to the sky, eyes wide and face serene in resignation.

Her ears twitched once more.

Except this time, they all heard.

A bloodcurdling roar thundered over the mountains, shaking the snow from the tips and trembling the very ground. The chaos from before fled in one fell swoop, a dreadful silence falling over every living being in Helgen, even the distant sounds of battle pausing as the cry stretched across the township.

The arguing parties were all frozen.

“What was that?” The Frostguard Captain whispered, significantly more subdued, hand tight around his axe. The Thalmor drew back his shoulders, sneering, sunken eyes flickering around nervously.

“Nothing of import. We’ll get this done quickly, and maybe have time for the Warmother before Imperial lapdogs swarm the place.”Without any more prompting, Jarvan’s hair was dragged down, his head along with it, by the Thalmor himself, and Jarvan was provided with an excellent view of the executioner, the Frostguard captain, and the Thalmor’s cruel, sharp features, all looking down at him, the Helgen tower behind them all.

And high, high behind the mountain, a dark shadow traced through the air.

His breath stopped.

The roar ricocheted through the clearing once more and, this time, something accompanied it.

“WHAT IN OBLIVION IS THAT?!

Jarvan had always maintained a loose relationship with his own death. Throughout most of his life, it had taken somewhat of a backseat to his current concerns. That wasn’t to say he didn’t appreciate what his death would mean. The end of his family line, and a resulting waste of the heir his parents had spent eighteen years creating, which would no doubt result in instability for all the people he cared about. It would probably also mean pain to Garen, to maybe his parents, which he didn’t exactly want. Throughout the past weeks, that relationship had become a lot more intimate, screams for mercy being ripped from him each day, fingers clawing for the end. Knee deep in gore, head on the chopping block, potential escape in sight, the fear had become more visceral, a rapid beating of the heart and pounding of the head, the mere _thought_ of rescue sending adrenaline through him.

But now, as he stared up at an ebony monstrosity, from the depths of Oblivion itself, he learnt what it meant to _truly_ fear death.

His entire body was locked, silent, gaping, straddling the line between sheer horrified denial and _awe_ , as an immense black dragon slammed into the top of the tower, keen reptilian eyes surveying the crowds, and it _bellowed_ with the power of the ancient Voice.

Screams of terror filled the air, prisoners and soldiers alike fleeing, the higher officered ones trying to regain control, as a beast straight out from Skyrim legend flared its black wings and roared its dominance over the insignificant gnats beneath.

In the distance, a battle resumed and Jarvan jerked into action. He rolled over, feeling his hair tear out from the grip of the dumbfounded Thalmor, and slammed his manacled hands straight towards the skull of the Frostguard captain. The man, still statuesque from terror, could barely react before he was dropping to his knees, blood trickling from his crushed skull, and eyes still affixed in terror. Jarvan hastened to fish out the keys and unlock his manacles as best he could with his cold-numbed fingers.

“FIRE!”

High above, the belly of the dragon turned molten gold and Jarvan only glanced up for a second before hands were grabbing his shirt and throwing him into the cover of the tower, as burning white flames projected from the dragon’s maw, scorching the land and decimating all those who couldn’t dodge in time.

He was almost unsurprised to see the Dunmer at his side, her red eyes scanning the landscape fiercely, flinching with each sound the dragon above made.

“The soldiers are distracted - they’ll try to evacuate the village. That means a chance for us,” she pointed between the buildings, “When I say so, charge straight through. We’ll split up through the buildings and meet at the Southwest tower.”

He just blinked, speechless, as she snatched the keys and hastily removed her own wrist bindings, ignoring the collar swinging from her neck.

“When-?” his breath caught as the huge scaled neck twisted from high above, golden eyes pinning down on him like spotlights.

No. Not him.

_Her._

The dragon’s throat ululated, words indistinguishable save for the way they seemed to carve the very magiks of the air. The neck reared back, the glow of fire dwelling within. The Dunmer stared the dark beast down without flinching, hand on his wrist.

“Stay calm.”

The dragon’s mouth opened, and amber light was kindling right in the monster’s gullet.

“GO!”

They both dove forward right as the fire unleashed itself, melting through the foundational stones of the tower and bringing the entire structure down behind them. Sprinting through the flaming ruins, the panicking crowds, and even the flaming crowds, Jarvan glanced back to see the dragon lift up before the tower completely fell apart, black wings blotting out the suddenly clouded sky, golden eyes scouring the crowds.

A chill ran down his spine.

 _Scouring the crowds for them_.

His attention was forcefully wrenched to the ground as the clash of steel rang around him. He hadn’t been the only one to take advantage of the chaos, and the Winter’s Claw rebels had quickly turned their weapons on their captors, even as the monstrosity raged above them.

“They’re mad . . .” he realised dimly, standing there amidst the hellfire, as the Nords cared more about killing each other than the dragon, charging through the fire with roars of challenge. “They’re all mad.”

“Everyone’s a little mad when dragons are abound,” the Dunmer rumbled in his ear and he jumped violently.

She pulled him to the side.

“I’m going to try and divert her. If you follow the wall down to the left, you should be able to stay under cover. Can you get yourself to safety?”

“Her?” he echoed, sounds pounding in his head, world almost tilting around him. The Dunmer grimaced.

“The Dragon. It. You’re bleeding, _can you get yourself to safety_?”

He was bleeding? He glanced down and blinked to find his rags beginning to stain red, his body finally giving against the strain of the past weeks at the worst possible time, loosely healed injuries reopening and soaking his limbs.

So that was why the world was tilting.

“FOCUS!” harsh pain exploded on his cheek as she slapped him somewhat ruthlessly, forcefully turning his face to a gap in the buildings. “That way! Get to the tower, stick to the wall-LOOK OUT!!” She dragged him to the side and he swore violently as a stream of fire seared right past them, melting through the very street they had been standing on, a dark shadow passing swiftly overheard, surely far too agile for a being that large.

He inhaled shakily and the Dunmer glanced around, “All right, she’s gone. Go, go go.”

“What about-?”

In a quick movement, she leapt over the melted street and danced through a ruined house, finding an enduring pair of stairs and vanishing upwards. A roar echoed over the town as the dragon sent a flaming breath straight into the building. The shadow hurled above once more and Jarvan stumbled out, breathing hard and hand reaching for the town walls. After a few, heart-stopping moments, he finally accessed his own shallow magika reserves and his skin glowed faint gold, blood clotting up enough to keep him walking. The world was still burning, but it was significantly less surreal - enough for him to straighten up and painstakingly toe his way through the rubble, moving south, slowly . . . slowly . . .

Fresh screams sounded as the dragon alighted down somewhere, the mere action sending tremors ricocheting through the ground with enough force to throw Jarvan to his knees.

He exhaled shakily, before slowly hauling himself back, reaching out for the nearest support, a wooden frame of a building whose roof was still aflame.

And before him was the path south.

His head pounded, half deaf from the madness surrounding him, and he was shivering in a way that was definitely not the cold, but he could still recognise it.

Down that path was the Vanguard and Garen. He could go home. _He could go home_.

(And then what?)

The cruel, hard thought cut through his incoherence more effectively than a direct strike. Hunched against the frame, blood still oozing from his injuries, clad in dirt, mud and ash, he was the farthest thing from a Prince that there could be. Even if they arrived, even if they found him, would they even be satisfied? Or would they just be disappointed?

(He was sick of being a _disappointment_ )

High above, he saw the flash of purple-black hair, and just blearily stared up at the sight of the Dunmer sprinting across a roof, face stone focused even as the immense black monstrosity wheeled above her, cruel eyes fixated.

His gaze drifted, away from the path to the tower.

(It was his _duty_ )

(He’d already _failed_ that  _duty_ )

A single hand released the post to hide his face as he finally let out a broken sob, shoulders shuddering whilst the world continued to end around him. With a single shamed glance, he turned to the southwest tower, throat aching and despair clogging his lungs.

It was a moment too long.

Fire exploded from his side and he gasped, falling to his knees, his already weakened state unable to stand tall.  He coughed, wide eyes blinking rapidly at the serrated arrow tip that had pushed out through his side, and considering how little blood he has to spare, an alarming amount was beginning to stain his shirt.  He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide and breath dangerously desperate.

There, through the crowds, was the Thalmor, the black bow directed dead at him as another arrow was deliberately aimed for his head.

Something ominous cracked above him and his gaze flew up, flinching at the falling embers, right when the burning ceiling devoured the walls and the whole building collapsed.

A rough hand caught his shirt and yanked him right into the centre of the building, safe from the collapsing rubble and shielded from the outside as the Dunmer woman crouched down, fingers prodding at the blood, growling at the arrow.

“Come on, get up!” she snarled, instead tugging on his wrist, “We’re almost there, let’s _go_.”

He didn’t know if it was desperation, a last reserve of strength awakened by his survival instinct, or her fervent expression, but he stumbled up, staggering through the buidling’s remains as she shoved open the tower gate, leading them in. The world blurred and warped, colours smudging together, as she set him on a chair.

“Fuck, it’s caved in.” Ash skin flashed past him, red eyes molten fire to his blood deprived mind, as she slammed the tower’s door shut.

He didn’t know what happened next, but the room seemed to tremble, her voice warping the very air, and for a brief terrifying moment he thought the dragon had caught them.

The sound of rocks being blasted apart, then a hand hoisted him up and then they were descending into the mountain itself.

 

“There are guard cells in here, but, far deeper, I heard bandits use this place a lot,” she spoke, voice loud and piercing the welcoming blackness. He clutched her, trying not to crumple, as their footsteps rang out in the comparable quiet. The underground tunnels were paved and tiled, but empty, the whole structure rumbling from the chaos above. She kicked open the first door she could find and he winced at the smell of slow death.

Tiny cages dangled from the ceiling, corpses in various states of decomposition all chained up within, their armour scraps still carrying the Winter’s Claw sigil. He was deposited on a torturer’s bench, clinging to it as best he could, gaze fixed on the contorted expressions of the recent dead.

She ignored them, rummaging through the draws as hurriedly as she could, shoving through the various bits and bobs. He turned at her small grunt of triumph, hand yanking out a punch of lock picks.

She attacked her collar with furious intent, smashing two in her bare grip alone as she jiggled them madly. At the click, she pulled it open and ditched it on the ground, stretching out her arms and exhaling. On the heels of her hands, two red runes reignited, deep red amongst ash skin.

She then turned to him.

“Shirt up,” she demanded and he sluggishly complied, adjusting the thin rags as best he could, revealing the offending arrow, surrounding skin bloodied and inflamed. She examined the serrated arrowhead for a moment, before picking up one of the torturer’s blades and carefully putting it against the shaft. Her other hand clamped hard around the arrow’s exit point and he gasped at the stab of pain. In the same moment, the blade came down and snapped off the arrowhead. Her hand moved to the fletching still protruding from his back, yanking out the rest of the shaft. As the pain swam in, blood freely seeping out, she unearthed a red potion she’d scavenged and splashed about half into the wound itself, handing him the rest to down.

“These places always have some health potions lying around,” she spoke, probably to try and keep him awake, “to make sure their guests don’t die before the intended time.”

“Lovely,” potions tasted like what they were made from - insects, mushrooms and vermin, and he forced down the gag reflex, checking there was a little bit left and offering it to her.

“No, finish it.” She told him flatly, “the worst I have are some bruises after I was chased right off a roof.”

That sounded like something that would cause more than bruises, but upon inspection, she was surprisingly unscathed. The potion was beginning to kick in, numbing his pain and sharpening his mind. Hence, he was lucid enough to frown.

“Chased? You mean by the . . . the . . .” his mouth caught on the word, still processing the reality of what had just turned Helgen into a hellfire, “ _the dragon_?”

“Yeah,” her tone was evasive, “by the dragon.” Something that sounded like an unlocked gate echoed back out in the tunnel and she frowned.

“Damn, they were quicker than I thought. We stop to look for clothes and then we’re going. You good to walk or do I need to carry you?”

“I should be . . .” he swayed to his feet, swallowing down the nausea, “should be fine.”

She gave him a sceptical once over, before turning in a swirl of purple-black hair and dragging him out by the wrist. Most of the rooms were empty save for cells, death reeking out from each, but a small cupboard revealed racks of weapons and several stands of armour.

“Grab something,” she nodded at the rack as she headed over to the armour, and he trailed obediently, eyeing them.

It was unrealistic to find a lance amongst the cheap, emergency weapons, but his hand did hover over the sword. It wasn’t _his_ weapon, but it was a tried and true Imperial choice, and all soldiers had to know how to wield it right.

His stomach coiled, and he skipped over it, unhooking the much lighter long bow - really more of a bent stick with wire, and the small quiver. He turned and a stack of cloth and fur hit his face.

As he scrambled not to drop anything, the Dunmer ditched the prisoner’s rags and yanked on the cloth armour with an appreciative rumble, pulling the furs up around her neck, and drawing a cowl over her ears.

“No weapons for you?” he asked, beginning to shrug on the much warmer cloth - metal would have been safer but he agreed with her quick decision that it would have also been much colder. She shrugged and held up a calloused fist.

“No need.”

“Then how did you get arrested?” he asked, voice slightly taunting, slightly curious, “If you don’t have need of anything to fight.”

She just grimaced, eyes narrow, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

_“-Maybe some people came down here! Search the rooms!”_

They both glanced back, the unanimous decision to move kicking in. She checked the tunnels, but they were far enough ahead to dart out, hurrying down to where the cement began to give way to rock. This far down, the only sounds were of their feet hitting stone, a distant underground river growing closer, and their potential pursuers far away. The Dunmer tracked her way through the dark without any trouble, sure of her footing, whilst Jarvan stuck as close to her as possible, hoping that the weak potion’s effects wouldn’t wear off too soon.

Her hand caught his chest and almost knocked him flat. The ground had been descending, but now opened up, the waterfall finally revealed in front of them, and torchlight flickering beyond.

“Bandits,” her voice was triumphant, “two on the right, one on the left.” A question was built in and he strung the bow, testing how far he could pull it without reopening anything.

“I’ll get the pair.”She nodded and hunkered into the shadows, moving towards the lone bandit. He drew back the arrow, exhaling softly. No longer a prisoner. Not worthy as a prince.

Simply a warrior.

His arrow flew true, slamming into one of the bandits’ head, just as the lone man let out a sharp cry, cutting off abruptly. As the last one still scrambled to his senses, Jarvan’s second arrow thunked into his back, piercing cleanly through to the heart. He winced as the body tipped over into the underground river with a splash, before manoeuvring his way out and retrieving one of their torches. The Dunmer joined him, face calm as she wiped blood off her hand.

“You okay?” she eyed his side, concerned, and he nodded carefully.

“I think so.” 

“Good, let’s keep moving then.”

With the torch, they went faster, thin boots thumping against the stone, as they trailed the underground river through the mountainside. It was eerily quiet, only the crackles of the torch and the sounds of the river to accompany them, faint luminescent lichens growing on the side of the cave. In the torchlight, the Dunmer’s eyes seemed to reflect the light, the flames dancing in them. Jarvan gave her a slight inspection.

Now that their frantic escape had become slightly less ‘frantic’, the default frown on her face had lessened and she almost looked calm - as if being chased by a dragon not twenty minutes ago was a regular occurrence.

“Never seen a Dark Elf before?” she asked. Even now she was still speaking Imperial and he let out a soft breath.

“Not quite,” he frowned at how breathless he sounded, “Just surprised to meet a Dunmer who doesn’t consider the Imperial tongue beneath them.”

“Arrogant dickheads,” she rumbled in agreement, and he snorted. “I go all across Tamriel, and Imperial is spoken almost as much as Tamrielic. It’s useful.”

“You’re a traveller?”

“Nice word for a refugee,” she cracked her neck slightly, frowning, “Not keen in staying in Skyrim too long.”

“I can imagine,” once again, his eyes ghosted over her distinguishing features, and she sent him a properly sour look.

“Now what?”

“Wondering about how well you seem to be taking all of this.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” her voice was scathing, “that’s good enough for me.”

He almost laughed at the irony. It would have been better for his dignity if he’d died.

He nearly missed the splash that was not natural to the river, but both stiffened, immediately moving to the cavern wall.

She peered around, before sighing.

“Just a pack of skeevers.”Jarvan’s small sound of disgust made her turn, amused.

“Scared of river rats?”

“Not a big fan of rabies, no.”

She scoffed, before brazenly stepping out, her footsteps loud. Immediately, the screeching echoed out and Jarvan’s hand flew for an arrow as three dark shapes all emerged from the river, immense yellowed buckteeth visible in the moss light.

The Dunmer extended out her right hand.

The rune on it pulsed in the dimness.

In a sweeping rush, magic energy flew out from her, whipping her hair and shivering the growing moss. It promised death and destruction and the skeevers shrieked in fright, barrelling back into the river and away into tiny burrows dug in the softer rock.

She turned, smile smug and ever so slightly feral.

“Fear spells,” the light of the rune abated as Jarvan stepped out, “very handy on pests.”

He barked a laugh, “I’m starting to see why they blocked your magika. Where now, oh prepared one?” She hummed, gesturing for him to angle up the torchlight, spying the various tunnels running around them.

“. . . That one,” she pointed down to their right, “there are steps cut into the stone.”Without hesitation, she moved and lithely leapt down, extending a hand for the torch. It was slippery and Jarvan jokingly asked if she could catch him so he could jump to, laughing at the way her nose immediately wrinkled. The ceiling stooped too low in the tunnel, so crawling it was as they edged their way through, torchlight dancing across the walls.

“How did you even know about these bandit tunnels?” Jarvan asked, just to cut the silence. She snorted.

“Overheard some people talking about bandits getting in and stealing stuff.”

He sent her a dark look, “Oh yeah? And where was this?”

She looked at him without a trace of guilt, “Riften, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Hey, I met you on an execution cart. You can get off your high horse, mister . . . bear ahead.” Her voice hushed immediately and he slowed his movements, both emerging from the tunnel with painstaking quiet. The cavern had opened up to a small cove, and, sure enough, a dark black mound was slumbering under a slight beam of sun, the river emerging near its head to run further down.

“We’re close to the end if the sun is cracking through,” she whispered, “let’s leave it be.”

“Gladly.” They both padded past the creature, Jarvan once more grateful of the decision to use cloth armour instead of steel, their presence unnoticed as they followed the river to another curling tunnel.

He let out a soft sigh as the passage opened up to a considerably brighter end, sunlight streaming in from a crack in the walls and the Dunmer gave a groan of relief, stretching out her back.

And then the bear howled.

They both went rigid, pivoting back as the roar of pain echoed across the stone walls.

“What happened?” Jarvan breathed, “that doesn’t sound like someone stepped on its tail.”

The Dunmer narrowed her eyes, “I’ll go check it out. If I’m not back in five minutes, then keep heading out.”

“Don’t take risks,” he warned, as she slunk into the shadows.

He pressed himself up against the wall as he was left alone, her footsteps fading back into the dark.

And as soon as he was confident she was gone, he reached down and gripped his side. Blood soaked into his fingers and he ground his teeth, frustrated. The arrow wound was the worst, but the others were all beginning to tear slightly, the potion’s effects no longer buffering the physical strain on fragile skin.

He let his head thud back against the wall and exhaled shakily.

And an arrowhead bounced off right next to his head, sparks flying.

With a yell of alarm, he dropped down to his knees, hands flying for his bow, rolling as another arrow tried to skewer him.

He drew an arrow and fired back. A harsh yell sounded out and Jarvan’s heart sank as the Thalmor representative staggered out, Jarvan’s arrow protruding from his leg. 

“You little Imperial _shit_!” the elf snarled, looking considerably worse for wear, immense burns across his face, hair askew, thin face aflame with bloodlust. He didn’t have time to wonder how the Thalmor had gotten past his companion. He rolled to his feet and tackled his tormentor. Both yelled as their bodies smashed, hard, against the uneven stone floor, but Jarvan managed to take advantage of the Thalmor’s disorientation to snap his tormentor’s weapon, before kicking him away. He was scrambling to his feet when bony hands dug into his shoulders and slammed him into the nearest wall. The Thalmor gripped him against the stone and yanked out a dagger from his belt.

Jarvan’s heart beat wildly and his eyes shone with Light.

A golden shield flew out from his body and the Thalmor shrieked as he was sent flying, sprawling across the cavern. Jarvan exhaled, tried to step and immediately crumpled, gasping. His magika had been boosting his health but following his desperate call, all the suppressed pain and weakness swept back in, shaking his legs and turning uneven breaths into desperate, sickly gasps.The Thalmor advanced, eyes maddened and Jarvan noted that he must have had a close encounter with the dragon. Most of his lovely black metal armour appeared to have melted onto his flesh.

“I need your head!” he screeched, “They got the blood, but if they don’t get the head, then _I_ die, you see? You understand, don’t you little boy?”

Amidst the pain blurred panic, he noted, affronted, that ‘little’ was a new one. He tried to kick out the elf’s legs but he easily dodged the weak attempt, hand shoving Jarvan back against the rocks, rattling his world even further.

“Everything’s going to kill me,” the elf singsonged, deranged, “first the bloody Nords and their weather, then a fucking dragon and now High Command will flay my corpse and dangle me from the cliffs of the Summerset Isles!”His eyes twitched.“But I don’t _I don’t_ deserve to die! I’m sTrong! And the Strong Survive! Right! RIGHT?!” He lifted up the dagger, panting heavily and Jarvan snarled as best he could.

The Thalmor screamed as he was yanked away, his body being sent crashing into the nearest cave wall. The Dunmer stood over him, red eyes burning and lips contorted in a feral snarl. Jarvan watched as the red rune on her left hand lit up, world blurry to his eyes.

Tongues of burning fire erupted from her palm, a searing wave that ate into the maddened High Elf, his screams filling the cave, engulfed in a strong enough heat that the wall behind him became molten red. She drew back her right hand and, maybe it was the blood loss, but Jarvan swore fingers and nails had been replaced by scales and talons, her hand turning into a razor sharp blade which she dug into the Thalmor’s skull and ripped through his brain matter.

He just slumped further and further, head pounding with his heart, the old pain blending with the new pain.

“No! Stay awake!” the voice echoed around his skull, a silhouette dropping beside him, “Please! Don’t - - asleep! - - - there!”

Her words swirled through his brain, incomprehensible, as he slumped into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Jarvan wrenched himself out of unconsciousness, his skull throbbing and body shivering.

It allowed him to focus on the clear sky above, such a rarity in Skyrim, and he frowned, trying to sit up. Helgen, the dragon, the cave . . . the Thalmor!

Sharp pain stabbed through his side as he jolted upwards and he let out a harsh gasp, fingers flying as if to tear out the arrow.

“Stay down. I’m no medic and I’d rather you didn’t agitate your injuries any more than necessary.”

He glanced around, finally processing his surroundings. He was next to a small campfire, hidden inside a thicket of trees hugging a river. Sitting in the water was the Dunmer, washing out the blood from her nails. In the daylight, she looked a little bit more worse for wear, uneven splotches in her colouration, and particularly scaly patches of skin that were slowly becoming more smooth as she ran water over them.

“Thank you,” he managed to elbow his way back down, head resting on the improvised pillow of boots and furs. His body was under a surprisingly well skinned bear rug and he eyed her appraisingly.

“The bear?”

Her face curdled, “That Thalmor had severed its back tendons. It would have taken hours for the poor thing to bleed out. I tried to make its end merciful.”

“You’re much kinder than you let on . . . name.” he suddenly realised softly and she blinked.

“Huh?”

“I never asked your name,” he tilted his head, “I owe you my life. I should know your name.”

She scoffed, “You’re running a temperature too high for an Imperial. You’ll forget it.”

“No, I won’t.” He didn’t know why this had suddenly become important, but it was, “I promise.”

She stared at him for a moment, squeezing the water out from her hair, before sighing. As she waded out of the river, she shook herself dry and she yanked back on the furs they’d grabbed from the tunnels. Settling beside him, her ash toned legs glinted in the day light. Her red eyes were fettered, burning embers in place of molten fire.

“. . . Shyvana.” She offered, “You can call me Shyvana.”

“Is it your name though?”

Her lips twitched up, “It’s the name I was given by the only person I care about. That’s good enough for me.”

“Shyvana,” he echoed, rolling it on his tongue. It _did_ sound like a Morrowind name. “I’m Jarvan.”

The smile became a little more sincere, and her aloof features seemed almost soft. Ever so carefully she reached out, entwining her fingers around his own, resting atop the bear skin. She mock shook his hand.

“Very nice to formally make your acquaintance, Jarvan,” she replied, “so we have survived execution, dragons and mad High Elves. What now?”

He frowned, “What do you mean?”

She shrugged slightly, “I’m not going to leave you to die in the wilderness, but what about after? Where were you going before all this mess?”

Before all the mess.

He almost wanted to laugh. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

She tilted her head, “People attacked Helgen. That Thalmor said they were after you.”

“Not really,” he let his head slump back down, “if they came upon me, they wouldn’t find who they were looking for.” She didn’t push and he didn’t pull, burying it down beneath his chest. He swallowed.

“And you? Where were you going?”

She let out a soft laugh, “Gods, anywhere. i need to leave before . . . yeah.” This time Jarvan didn’t push, but he would wager good money she’d been about to bring up the dragon.

Her expression had fallen thoughtful, “I don’t know where to go next. Maybe I could try heading for Hammerfell.”

“Not Morrowind?”

“What’s left of it?” she responded dryly, before letting out a bitter laugh, “I haven’t been there since I could crawl.”

At her expression, his own chest ached, wanting to take it away, scared it looked too much like his own. Whatever face he betrayed, it motivated her to hide back away behind the bland mask.

“We can talk later. You need to sleep more.”

“It’s fine-”

“ _Sleep,_ ” she insisted and her hand dropped onto his forehead. Almost immediately, fatigue seeped through his body and his eyelids fluttered. “I won’t go far.”

 

He woke intermittently over the day, varying states of aware, as Shyvana puttered around the campsite, absently rearranging the fire, stitching up some holes in the cloth armour, trying to yank out the tangles in her long hair. As the sun began its descent, she nudged him awake, revealing a selection of fish all spit roasting over their fire. It was a far cry from the banquets held in the Imperial City, but he drooled at the sight of them. With a lot of wincing, and gasping, and ‘holy shit did we reopen the side?’ style panicking, they managed to get him reasonably upright. Without bothering with utensils, she descaled and cut open the fish with her sharp nails, deftly removing out the cooked flesh for him to eat. He groaned at the taste of cooked meat, incurring a bark of laughter from his companion. She, meanwhile, seemed perfectly happy to just bite straight into the fish, spitting out the bones afterwards and filing her teeth. Their conversation was light, Jarvan’s entire body languid and sluggish and her gaze fixed far more closely on the sun, its last light spilling amber ink over the coming twilight. He didn’t know whether it was his wounds, or just his general experience that was getting to him, but it was growing increasingly harder to stay alert, his consciousness flirting with the edge of sleep, his fingertips more than willing to trail through dreams-

Shyvana’s hand on his wrist jolted him out of the doze and he let out a hard gasp, immediately rigid and prepped for ambush.

“No one has found us,” Shyvana’s voice was hard, direct, “but the weather has turned.”

He blinked, recollected himself and glanced up.

What had previously been a star-filled sky was now dark with oncoming rain clouds, the rumbles of thunder carrying up from the valleys.

At his side, Shyvana sniffed the air, grimacing. “A storm. Of course.”

He tried to clear his throat, coughing slightly, “What do we do?”She spared him a glance, gnawing on her lip.

“You’ve been exposed to enough damp. If you get caught in a storm, without a fire, you might not last the night.”He knew passively that they were discussing his own frailty, but she looked so intensely concerned that he tried to nod as encouragingly as he could to bolster her confidence.

Even now, she glanced around, adept in the dark in a way he never could be, “I was wandering around earlier and saw some things that might be caves. We could move there.”

“Sounds like a . . . like a plan.” He went to sit up, but her hand caught his shoulder, expression threatening.

“You should not be moving whatsoever. I’ll carry you.”

Before he could protest, she dug her arms under his body and he was promptly mortified at how she lifted him up with no visible effort, carrying the rugged-up man through the brush for a few minutes, to a small stone cavelet, barely sheltered from the elements.

She quickly retrieved their meagre supplies and a small pile of wood just as the rain began to pour, thundering around outside them. In his slightly feverish state, Jarvan could almost imagine a dragon’s roar guiding it, and he burrowed deeper into the ‘blanket’.

Shyvana half-heartedly arranged their new fire, lightly running her fingers over it. Sparks trailed from her fingers, warmth soon spreading over the cave and she grumbled, pulling fine fingers through her increasingly ratty hair.

“I hate this country,” she opened, petulantly, “it’s either raining, or snowing, or hailing. And if none of those, then you can’t appreciate the sun because of all the wind. I miss _heat_.”

He snorted in agreement, before sneezing and shivering slightly. She offered him some water but it was becoming increasingly useless against his raw throat. His brain was so static he could barely stay focused. She settled beside him and he huddled closer to her warm skin, shivering violently and breath heavy. She placed a hand over his forehead, forehead scrunched tight.

“ _Shit._ ”

“Th-that bad, huh?” he shivered and she cracked a smile.

“Just slightly.” The two sat huddled in the cave, staring out into the darkened world.

Jarvan just shuddered, feeling iron spikes pushing into his brain.

“Shy-Shyvana?”

“Mm?”

“T-tell me a story,” he asked quietly and she turned to him, curious.

“What sort of a story?”

“A-anyth-thing really,” he tried to smile, but it just made him cough. She thought for a moment, her hand coming down to settle in his hair, long fingers pulling through his black locks.

“When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world,” he blinked up at her words, the growl almost completely replaced by the not-quite musical recitations distinctive of bards, “when the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped, when the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles. When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne and the White Tower falls, when the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding, the World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.”

He grumbled.

“That’s n-not a story, that’s the old-d Dragonborn proph’cy.”

“Don’t be picky,” she lightly prodded his forehead with her nail, “you’re the one who put me on the spot.”

“You could have at least said ‘once upon a time’.”

“I wasn’t aware that validated myths as worthwhile stories.”

Her reply was the uneven breathing of ill sleep. She just sighed, pulled her knees closer to her chest and continued to run fingers through his hair.

 

He woke up frequently, fitfully, cheeks flushed, body freezing and wheezing. More than once, she was rebinding his oozing wound, trying to improve something that was definitely growing infected in the damp. His eyes were glassy and his throat rattled, trying to breathe around broken glass.

Lightning flashed through the night, and the moon was hidden behind the clouds.

It couldn’t have been long past midnight when he woke up for the nth time, slurred, heavy and scared.

Shyvana ran fingers through his hair, holding out a hand for him to grip to as best he could, but he knew, in a detached sort of way, that it wasn’t getting better.

It was still hours before sunrise when her gaze turned to the deep night, the light of dawn made even further away by the promise of the unstopping rain. He was curled under all their furs, her own armour nothing more than thin cloth now, her eyes staring out determinedly.

Dimly, he grasped what she was thinking, as she tried to encourage him to go back to sleep.

His fingers caught on her wrist.

“Don’t go . . .” he mumbled, breath heavy, “you could get hurt.”

It was dark. It was pouring. The river could flood. She could slip. Nobody would save a drowning Dunmer. Not again. Somebody wasn’t dying on his behalf again.

Her lips twitched.

“Don’t worry. I’m a strong girl.”

She went to leave and he snatched at her, “No, Shyv-!”

She spun, grabbed his shoulders and stared into his eyes. He froze under the reptilian pupils.

“I’ll be fine, Jarvan,” she spoke, voice firm and confident, “you, on the other hand, are in very real danger. Try to get some sleep, and I’ll be back before you wake up.”She slipped out from his grip, not bothering with a torch as she pulled up her cowl and went out into darkness.

Even if his increasingly feverish body _could_ remain asleep, his anxiety kept him bolt awake, a haze of clarity amidst the delirium, eyes scanning nothing in hopes of seeing his companion re-emerge. Sweat trickled down his forehead uncomfortably, and there was a deep sinking numbness in his centre that only now was he properly processing. Time seemed almost separate, only the unstopping rain reminding him that he hadn’t yet left his understanding of reality. He tried to cough out the glass and only succeeded in curling in on himself, even tighter, chest aching and sinuses burning.

The caves wall were deep and encompassing, and he could almost imagine he was back in his chambers in the Imperial capitol, his bed posters arching above him. The ache in his brain the morning sun, pouring in and reminding him to wake up, the rare occasion it was that he had slept in past sunrise.

Footsteps sounded and a dark shape loomed over him.

“-van? Jarvan!”

Who came in this early? Xin Zhao and his father were already busy at this time, and none of the servants dared.

“Garen?” he asked, curious, hopeful to see his dear friend.

The figure cursed, colourfully, using words that the Might of Cyrodiil would never use.

“Okay, Jarvan? Can you hear me?” the words echoed and he frowned.

Of course he could hear, he wasn’t going deaf.

“Can you understand me?”

Obviously.

“Good, excellent, now I’m going to need you to wrap your arms around my neck. Can you do that?”

Wrap his arms around Garen’s neck? It made him think of when he was a young boy, getting piggyback rides from the kitchen workers. He hadn’t had one in years. He was too tall.

“Don’t worry. I’m strong.” His entire world spun and in the next instant, he was pressed up against something very warm and course. The rough fabric wasn’t great, but the heat was gladly welcome, as he pressed his face into it, sharp points of pain gripping his legs.

“My neck, Jarvan. Grab. Neck.”

Grab neck? He tried to figure out what was going on, but the burning pain wasn’t going away. Shouldn’t his eyes have adjusted by now, gotten rid of the stabbing?He felt hands grab his own, guiding his two hands to interlock. He lazily complied, linking fingers with himself and closing the gap between himself and his hands. Between them, the warm thing was and he hugged it tighter, burying his face in to feel as much as he could.

The figure sighed.

“Good enough. Hold on.”

Had he been lucid, he would have noticed the rain had stopped, so his protector forwent cowls and instead wrapped all their warm clothing around him as tightly as she could, no need to keep the furs safe from the damp. The river would be swollen, but calmer, the early trickles of morning light dappling the clear mountain stream, showing the fish wriggling within. He would have seen his companion trailing dutifully along the river’s edge, retracing her almost washed away steps, eyes focused on the water wheel down the mountainside, the small village attached to it their destination.

But he was not lucid, so he didn’t notice any of that, and instead slumbered away, face buried in her neck.


	2. Bleak Falls Barrow

Shyvana had reached the town, gripping the man’s legs around her centre, bent forward so he wouldn’t tip off, his uneven, weak, breathing right in her ear. He had been heavier than she expected for someone so ragged looking but her magika had been flowing strong for more than a day.  With the arcane energies bolstering her strength, carrying him hadn’t been a problem.

 Mostly, she’d been scared he was going to die on her back.

She’d been pleasantly surprised when the villagers who’d stopped her at the wooden gates had taken one look at her burden and immediately escorted her through to the small inn. Even now, the various faces passing her by only spared her dark skin and red eyes a second glance, most keeping to themselves.

The Imperial had been removed from her back, his wounds disinfected and stitched shut, doused in enough healing potions to start an apothecary, given a health draught to push against the pneumonia that had set in and then bundled away into one of the inn’s spare rooms.

In the somewhat awkward period as she hovered around the sleeping man, unsure of what to do next, the innkeeper, a petite, well-built Imperial, had taken pity on her, bought the bear skin as payment for the treatment and directed her to a small stool near the inn’s hearth, where she had spent the morning peeling an obscene amount of potatoes, and progressively moved through the inn’s entire vegetarian larder.

It was boring, it was mundane, and it made her want to catch up on all the sleep she was beginning to miss, but it was something and she wasn’t about to prod the tentative acceptance of the people milling about her. Another slightly more practical perk of her nondescript presence in what was probably the village’s hub, was that every single villager came through at some part of the day.

They all had much better things to talk about than a Dark Elf.

“A dragon! I saw a dragon!”

“Not now, mother-”

“It was a dragon, I swear! Black as night, and it flew straight over the barrow!”

As the man, face bright red, tried to lead the woman away, a bunch of other voices joined the mix, tales sourced from the Frostguard and Winter’s Claw alike who had escaped the blaze.

“It’s this damn war, you hear me!” one Nord had slammed his tankard down for emphasis during the lunch rush. “All the songs say when Skyrim is divided, the World-Eater will come for us all!”

“I think it’s preposterous,” another housewife had sniffed, whilst watching as the hunters returning in the afternoon, “I mean, really, dragons? In _Helgen_? As if anything so interesting could happen in our part of the world.”

“I heard there is no more Helgen; just a burnt-out wasteland.”

“It’s a shame, I always liked Vilod’s Juniper Berry mead.”

“Raid the ruins; maybe the dragon left some behind.”

That comment got a bit of laughter drifting over the long tables, people gathered around for dinner, some good-natured shoves being thrown down the lines.

One man just shook his head, milky eyes weary.

“I heard they captured Winter’s Wrath herself - if she truly used a Shout to kill the High Queen, then why would a _dragon_ go there of all places?”

In the background, Shyvana, in the midst of dicing up an array of roots, felt her hands begin to tremble and she almost sliced off her finger.

“I heard there was a Thalmor agent sneaking around,” one particularly loud voice grumbled, “damn black-hearted snakes the lot of them.”

Even something as gossip worthy as a dragon was no match for the positive tirade of Thalmor condemning rants that ensued, every single member of the tiny village somehow having some completely unique affront against them, courtesy of the High Elf expansionists.

Shyvana almost tried to stay tuned, to tunnel away from her own thoughts, but she could already feel her panic building, shuddering her shoulders and hitching her breath.

 _“Why would a dragon go there of all places_?”

She inhaled thickly, feeling the burn of reptilian eyes, scouring the skin from her body as their owner smiled wickedly down at her. Yvva’s expressions had always been vivid, clear, dripping with murderous intent.

 _“Found you, mortal abomination,”_ the tongue of dragons had forever come easily, _“He’s not here to save you this time; and you have nowhere left to run.”_

Nowhere left.

Her mind drifted over the last _lucid_ conversation she’d had with Jarvan, about where she would go next. Maybe she could try Morrowind - returning to the Red Mountain would certainly allow her to thumb her nose at Yvva.

Urgh. _Morrowind_.

“Umm . . . excuse me?”  she almost dropped her potato. Standing across the hearth, a young Wood elf, black hair dangling like a curtain, was eyeing her hands, clutching the broom as if to wield as a barrier.

“Are you . . . all right?” Shyvana blinked for looking down. She had been so fixated her own mind that her fist had begun crushing the small knife, the metal edge looking like it would break before her skin did.

Slightly shame faced, she loosened her grip. “Ah . . . sorry.”

The girl frowned.

“Dunmer!” she glanced over, the innkeeper waving her hand, “You’ve done enough work to pay for the room! Bring them over here! Irelia, don’t slack off!” the Wood Elf dipped her head, before lightly drifting off, feet ghosting over the floor. The innkeeper just gave an appreciative nod as Shyvana hefted the barrel into the kitchen without breaking a sweat.

“You’ve got good arms there, girl. Since when do Mer lift weights?”

She blinked, slightly confused, “I don’t.”

The woman let out a thankfully good-natured scoff, “Of course not. While I find something else for you to do, why don’t you go check on that man of yours?”

She immediately straightened. “He’s awake?”

The innkeeper chortled, “Oh yes, but he’s hopped up on enough draughts and mead that he might as well still be delirious. Why don’t you go make sure he hasn’t hurt himself yet?”

Excitement sparked  in her chest, and even though she was positive her eyes must have contracted traitorously, the innkeeper didn’t even flinch.

The spare room she’d been lent was on the second floor, a little broom closet with enough space for a bed and trunk and nothing else.  About ten blankets were wrapped around the Imperial, his already pale skin still somewhat sallow, but considerably improved from the ghostly white of the morning. Sure enough, he was blinking awake, peering out blearily and trying to escape from the confines of his countless blankets.

“Jarvan?” she crouched down beside him, “Are you awake?” He blinked, squinted heavily at her, before his whole head flopped sideways and he swayed forwards.

“Mmhhg?” he mumbled, tone questioning and she almost laughed at the sound.

“Are you okay?” she asked, trying to shove out her accent for clarity and he just swayed a bit more, before tipping forward and wrapping his hands around her cheeks.

“I owe you my life.” He spoke, suddenly eloquent, “I am ready for anything.”

A laugh managed to force itself out through her facade, a deep rumble in the back of her throat as she began pushing him back down.

“You need a lot more sleep.”Her hand ghosted over his forehead, already pulsing from her sleep charm, when the hand on her face dropped to her shoulder.

“Scales,” he told her, proud of himself, “it was scaly.”

She blinked, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Okay, you definitely need sleep.”

He barely needed any push, the slightest effects making him fall back under, breathing evenly.

She rearranged the blankets, getting to her feet with a small huff.

And then she turned to the dusty mirror in the room.

Traitorously, compulsively, one of her hands slid her shirt down, purple-grey skin poking out of her neckline. She stared at her own reflection for a moment, lips thinning.

He must have seen at the riverside. She’d suppressed it the instant she realised he was awake too.

In her tension, her agitation, it had come out of its own accord. A sea of purple-black dragon scales crisscrossing her shoulder.

She took a steadying breath, forcing them back under, stomach churning.

She needed to get out.

 

The mountainside around the village would have been treacherous for the unwary, but it was simple for her to pick her way through the uneven slopes and brush, feet silent in the melting snow, the dark of night no barrier to her sight.

It felt good to be outdoors again, and she carried herself recklessly forward, no longer in the eyes of men. Her father had always advised caution, but her body was itching and Yvva always made her feel like something within was trying to rip her open and escape. It couldn’t hurt, just for a few hours to give in to instincts she knew didn’t drive most Mer.

A stag in the distance.

Her eyes sharpened.

Not just a stag. Waiting behind it was a pack of scrawny wolves, their skin dangling off bared bones, off casts by packs. Without much hesitation, she struck. Her right hand turned clawed, and she dug it straight into the deer’s throat, ending the life without too much effort.

Howls of outrage and frustration sounded behind her, and she turned, the mangy beasts all circling her, intent on taking the deer _and_ killing her in revenge.

A simple casting of fear would have them scattering. She could lighten her feet, dash to safety with her prize.

The red rune pulsed with energy and her eyes glowed with bloodlust.

She’d held back. She’d held back so much it had hurt.

In the caverns, running from the danger, she’d done the bare minimum, bandits cracking like twigs. Only when she’d returned from the poor bear to find Jarvan about to be gutted by that cock arrogant Thalmor had she allowed her mind to slip away, feral rage consuming her as she attacked.

Now, there was no one.

_Kill. Burn. Bleed._

She grinned around fangs, and charged into the wolves, fire burning out from her palms. Their howls turned into squeals of terror and pain, as fire and talon met matted fur, tearing and burning with equal abandon. Blood dripped off her nails and savage glee filled her, her mouth pooling at the thought of sinking in teeth. One tried to flee and she took a moment to think, to ponder of what she could throw to end it quickly, to guide it away in case it returned with a vengeance.

Absently knocking the thoughts aside, she turned and sprinted after it, feet burning the undergrowth into black footprints, her elated roar filling the trees as she tackled it, hands reaching to crush its neck.

A desperate claw sliced her arm, its mad scrabble to escape managing to persevere, but it all ended with a sickening crunch, her palms lifting off and dripping with blood.

And then she took a step back and left out a deep, disgusted exhale.

This was wrong.

She wasn’t a beast, an unleashed monster. She was a Dark Elf, a daughter of Vvardenfall, and she’d just enjoyed watching them all scream under her.

She left the wolf where it was, and went back to find her stag.

She ran from the burnt trees as quickly as she could.

 

“I don’t need all that,” the skinner apologised, eyeing the mountain of about fifteen deer she’d brought back. Along with it she’d dumped a large amount of wolf claws, mud crab shells, skeeter tails and even something that looked suspiciously like a sabre cat’s tooth, “I only need the furs and the venison.  Why don’t you take it to Lucian, or his sister Camilla? They have a store that trades goods - they’ll appreciate it more.”

“I see,” Shyvana pocketed the coppers swiftly, “. . . where is it?”

“Just head back past the inn slightly, it’s the next largest building.”

She nodded in thanks, but paused at his thoughtful hum.

“You know,  this is too much for what I paid you. How about I make some of these into furs and bring them into the inn tomorrow?”

She blinked, turning back, “It’s not a pain?”

“Not at all! Enjoy your evening, Elf!”She knew her face was mildly contorted so she just nodded and bailed.

Sighing, she exited out into the dark night, yanking fingers at her tangled braids.

Letting loose always lessened the constant itch across her skin, but, blame it on her childhood, the itch always went back to maddening when people were helpful to her. She knew Nords loved their rules about honour and paying back deeds in full, but these people were going the extra league and being _nice_.

That _definitely_ said something about her childhood, and she sighed again as she padded up the porch steps to the Traders building.

“- I thought you said it was in the safe!”

“I didn’t think it would be gone in the whole two minutes I was-!”

The two voices cut off as Shyvana toed open the door and she blinked out of her head. “I can come back.”

“No, no, it’s just . . . nothing.” The pair of Yokudans sent each other quick looks before the man headed out back and Shyvana found herself under an immediately courteous smile.

She resisted the urge to drop into a defensive stance.

“Sorry about that; how can we help you?”

“I was told to come here - the skinner said you’d take these.” She dropped the array of claws and teeth on the counter and the woman immediately set to business, picking up each and examining them through a small magnifying lens. After a moment, she set it down, flustered.

“These . . . some of these are sabre cat teeth.”

“I know,” she arched an eyebrow, “I got them when I killed a sabre cat. Seems pretty self-explanatory. What are they worth?”

“You killed. . .? No, that’s none of my business. We’re a bit thin on money at the moment, so I can’t give you quite enough copper. However, please take some of our potions instead - it should even the value.”

She remained thankfully silent as Shyvana uncorked a couple and sniffed them, trying to not grimace at the array of Nasty that besieged her senses, before settling on some more health potions as well as a draught to resist cold.

She fucking hated the cold.

And if Jarvan ended up coming along with her, it probably wouldn’t hurt his immune system.

The woman gave a quick easy smile, folding a tight cloth around the bundle of potions and even offering her a cloth back to sling over her shoulder. However, Shyvana had almost escaped the customer service politeness when the woman cleared her throat.

“Is . . . is it true that you arrived from the south path?”  
“Why?”  
“Well, the only thing up that way is . . . _was_ Helgen. Um, I was just-”

“Yes.”  
The trader started, her eyes lighting up. Shyvana felt a sigh build in her chest and forcefully suppressed it.

“You wanted to know if I came from Helgen. Yes. We did. Good night.”

She exited the building as quickly as she could, unwilling to have any more conversations this early in the morning, especially after staying awake for almost forty-eight hours.

The inn was fairly barren, save for a few drunk souls beside the hearth, as she slipped in and made a beeline for the small room.

Jarvan mumbled something in his sleep, head rolling sideways, as she let the door swung shut behind her.

Collapsing onto the trunk, her head knocked hard against the wall, before her eyelids closed and she _finally_ drifted off.

 

Jarvan remained out for almost twenty-four hours. The sun was rising the next day when a faint groan pulled her out of her doze, seeing him struggling to sit up, eyeing the ceiling with a distinct frown, the sort of squint that normally signified a throbbing head.

“Morning,” she yawned, stretching out her back, pulling his attention as he just frowned, trying to regather himself.

“. . . Good morning, Shyvana.” his words were slow, thought out and she pursed her lips.

It was _weird_ hearing something use her name again.

“Where are we?”

“Don’t really know,” she admitted, ignoring his incredulous glance, “I found a town hugging the river. Carried you here yesterday morning, and the villagers had you drugged in enough potions that you’ve been asleep since.”

He winced, hand moving to pull away blankets and inspect his side. The skin had closed well, galvanised by the potions, and the stitches would soon be safe to snip off. Now there was just a scar, the skin still red where it had bubbled slightly at the exit point.

His expression was endearingly concerned.

“So . . . you’ve been here for twenty-four hours waiting for me?” Aww. “And you didn’t bother to ask a _single person_ what the village was called?” Oh.

She arched an eyebrow, “I rarely get bothered over these sorts of things.”

He rolled his eyes, “What if this place was infamous for its, I don’t know, axe murderers?”

“I can deal with an axe murderer,” she replied bluntly, in the sort of tone that explained she wasn’t being arrogant, a tone he correctly interpreted if the twitch in his eyebrows was any indication.

He exhaled slightly, pressing a finger to his temple, and rubbing circles for a bit.

“Good to know. Not quite the point I was going for, but good to know.”

He went to sit up a bit straighter, before immediately wincing, shivering slightly and hand flying to his side. She’d had enough sleep to take pity on him.

“We’re still pretty near Helgen, if that helps,” she offered, “most people have been spending all their time talking about the dragon.” He flinched slightly, and she remembered, a bit late, that the whole ‘dragon’ thing was likely still a bit hard for his mental faculties to be accepting towards.

Inhaling slightly, he slowly examined himself, clearly trying to stay on task.

“So I’ve been asleep for a whole day-”

“Well, mostly,” she admitted, “you were certainly _out_ for the whole time, but not so much asleep.”

He stared at her, expression dark.

_“What?”_

“I haven’t laughed so much in years,” she offered, knowing her voice was sly, “you can be quite amusing when you’ve had enough potions poured down your throat.”

He flushed, hands yanking through his hair, “Oh, gods, please don’t tell me-”

“You never left this room,” she assured, “and only I, the innkeeper and her maid have come in here.”

He grumbled at that, inciting a snicker, but she immediately paused as he began shifting off the blankets.

“What are you doing?”

He balked at her, and she scowled at the expression, “According to you, I’ve been here for a whole day. I don’t want to impose any longer than I already have.”

“We’re not imposing,” she responded, smugly, “I’ve been doing some work.”He blinked at her, and once more his fingers yanked at his hair, lips pressed together.

“. . . Thank you,” his voice was soft, a dark shamed edged to it that had her mouth twitching down.

“I’m a pretty competent hunter,” she shrugged, “it was no big deal to agree to clear out some pests.”  
“I don’t doubt it,” he responded politely, before his forehead flickered down, “how did you arrange it?”  
“Huh?”  
“I know you understand Tamrielic but-”

She blinked, before recalling her petty move in the stupid cart with a snort.

“Oh, no no, I speak both Tamrielic and Nordic. Staying in Imperial just pissed him off really effectively.”  
“You were in an execution cart,” Jarvan turned to her, faintly incredulous, “and you still managed to stay in one language for the sole purpose of pissing this one rebel off?”  
“I don’t like being called a Grey Face,” she responded pointedly and he flinched, “besides what else was I to do? Mope like the rest of you? Even the most unscathed survivors have been putting their Brave Nordic Ancestors to shame.”

Jarvan nodded in concession, but there was an odd crease to his face, and his hands tightened around the blankets.

“Just Nords? No other survivors?”  
“No members of that ‘armoured cavalry’,” she caught on and he stiffened, “but I don’t think they were in the town enough to draw her ire. She didn’t really care about things outside of Helgen.”

 His eyes burnt into her and she ignored him. Even if Jarvan didn’t understand, Yvva hadn’t been subtle in her dog-headed pursuit of Shyvana - he probably could guess she’d been the target. Something which she had as little interest in speaking of as he seemed to be in regard to his homeland and countrymen.

Before things got too awkward, the door swung open.

“So, he lives to fight another day!” The innkeeper came in with a beaming smile, a tray balanced on her hands. “You had her worried there, young man! Maybe take a bit better care of yourself next time.”

Shyvana obediently grabbed a bowl and backed into the corner, swiping a piece of sourdough and watching the gloom around her companion perfectly switch into a polite blank mask, futilely insisting that the help wasn’t necessary, thanking her sincerely and frequently enough that the aggressively congenial woman eventually just straight up told him to shut up and accept the help. He seemed like he would protest further but, as he tried to grab the bowl himself, he twitched.

Her eyes narrowed as he immediately relented, a stunned look to his face.

He waited for the innkeeper to leave, before immediately reaching down to painstakingly unbandage his hands.

She winced. “Oh yeah. That part’s just going to have to heal naturally.”

Jarvan just seemed to wilt slightly, eyeing the intense burns that had spread over his palms and fingers, sensitive flesh all up his arms.

Yvva’s dragonfyre had that sort of long-lasting effect, even with healing potions.

He was frozen just long enough for her to grow concerned, before he twisted and gave her a once over.

“How?”

“Anything, even just grabbing a metal frame might have done it,” she pointed out, “everything was boiling.”  
“No, how are you _completely_ free of burns?”

She blinked before smirking, resting her chin on her hands. “Dunmer, remember?”  
“Fire resistance has limits.”  
Well yes, and being half-dragon sort of removed them, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Luck, I suppose,” she instead shrugged, “by the way, you know that whole getting up idea? Maybe wait a bit just in case she manhandles you back in here.”

Jarvan let out a deep groan and slumped back down, ignoring her long rumbling laugh.

 

After a veritably indecent amount of back-and-forth-ing, they eventually settled on midday as a good time to leave, Jarvan no longer swaying when he stood upto get dressed. Shyvana, who had headed down to retrieve the promised furs from downstairs, paused at the sight that awaited her upon return.

Jarvan was facing away from her, as he carefully got dressed around his burnt hands, giving her a rather excellent view of the mangled mess that was his back.

Scars sliced up his skin, shoulders, ugly uneven tears likely from a whip, and a sea of clean concise cuts along his veins that seemed slightly too deliberate to only cause pain.

She could almost hear Father’s voice, scolding her for not averting her eyes.

“Did the Thalmor do that?”  
She’d never made a point of adhering to Father’s manners.

Jarvan outright _flinched_ , immediately yanking up a shirt, and spinning around, eyes wide.

“I . . . I . . . they . . . well, _I’d rather not talk about it._ ”

She blinked, taking in his suddenly rapid breaths, and his panicked eyes.

“That’s fair. Need a hand?”  
“Y-yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She helped him pull on gloves and boots, the sharp inhales replaced by sighs as the soft fabric gave him some degree of cushioning.

“I’m going to get to Hammerfell.” she spoke without preamble as he pulled on the nearby newly fur-lined cloak, “Afterwards, maybe head south to Valenwood. Not many plans beyond that. That should pass by Cyrodiil.”

Jarvan’s hand paused, twitched really, against the cloak’s fasteners and he just shook his head, dark eyes staring at something that definitely wasn’t her.

“It has been made abundantly clear to me that I would be dead many times over if it weren’t for you. I’m not going to ignore a life debt like that.”

She snorted, sitting back. “Don’t think about it too much. You’d be surprised how few people are polite to me. Would have left a bad taste in my mouth if I’d have left you to die in Helgen.”

“Even so, I owe you, politeness aside,” he sent her a small weary smile, “so if it all right with you, I will follow you in your travels until that debt is paid.”

She shrugged, “Doesn’t make much difference to me. Do what you want.”

He seemed almost perplexed, blinking at her rapidly, the gears in his head visibly reconfiguring. She watched in fascination as His shoulders straightened and he exhaled forcefully, eyes firmer.

“Shall we head off then? You don’t have anything else to do?”

“Indeed not.” She pushed herself and cracked her neck. “Come along then, indebted one.”

That finally got a bark of laughter out of him and she strutted her way of the room, pleased with herself, as he followed closely behind. 

The innkeeper waved at them as they came down from the stairs, supported by hearty cheers and congratulations, as the various individuals taking part in the inn’s communal lunch all sought out the pair. Many of them immediately besieged the Imperial, and Shyvana quickly pulled him to safety, making for the bar counter.

“You two take care now!” the innkeeper beamed, “Don’t stay outside too long with that dragon circling.”

Shyvana nodded her thanks and Jarvan opened his mouth. The woman stuck her finger at him.

“I don’t need anything more from you, young man. If you want to thank anyone, it’s your friend here.”

His mouth closed, expression slightly miffed, earning the laughs of several of the folk gathered around the tables for lunch.

Shyvana meanwhile, at least made an effort to remain on task.

“The two of us are looking to reach Hammerfell,” she spoke over the din, “do you have any suggestions that don’t involve walking through a Cvil War?”

There were paused in the crowds, whispers and musings, before a man spoke up.

“I wouldn’t know so much about it but talk to Lucian. He has to get goods through from Hammerfell and Cyrodil, and he knows the tricks for avoiding the fighting.”

“Lucian?”

“The trader,” Shyvana filled in, “I sold his sister some teeth yesterday.”

The pair waved at the crowd, most calling out good wishes and promising a party if they returned.

“And if you’re ever passing through Riverwood again,” the innkeeper yelled, “I’m more than willing to pay some good coin for a bit of help! The gods know Irelia heard one word about a dragon and scampered off like a mouse.”

“We’ll keep that in mind!” Jarvan yelled back, as the inn door swung shut behind them.

Outside, the noon sun was out, the wind had settled to a strong wind from a gale, and overall, it wasn’t as terrible as it could be.

Jarvan still looked dazed, “Nice people?”

Shyvana exhaled, her warm breath condensing in the air and Jarvan returned his focus to the sound of their boots crunching the frost underneath.

 “So . . . this place is called Riverwood, I suppose.” His tone was light, even teasing.

She felt a tinge of relief, even as she scowled, “I could have guessed that. It didn’t matter in the long run.”

“I’d argue otherwise.”

“If you had been through as many villages as I have,” their feet tapped against the wooden porch, her hand pushing open the Trader’s door, “you would know how irrelevant it is.”

“As many villages as I’?” he echoed, mocking, “well, excuse me, ma’am, I wasn’t aware you were so wordly.”He had a rather formal way of speaking, but the odd glance she sent him was interrupted by Lucian emerging from the back room, drawn by the door shutting with the clatter of thick wood on wood. Eyes warmed at the sight of them, his long braids held back today.

“Ah, Miss Elf! And her drowsy friend!” he leant against the counter, curious, “What can I help you with?”

“We want to get to Hammerfell,” she spoke without preamble and his expression went blank with confusion. Jarvan sighed beside her.

“Both of us seek to cross Skyrim’s borders, but we’d rather do it without the threat of walking into a Frostguard/Winter’s Claw murder spree.”

The shopkeeper’s expression cleared considerably. “Yes, they do stifle those of us who just want to get on with our lives, don’t they?”

He pulled over a map of Skyrim, stretched over the end of the table, weighed down by various stones and gems.

“Keep heading North - the best way through to Hammerfell is through Whiterun’s trade routes. The hold capitol can get you a horse and wagon travelling all the way out.”

“Whiterun?” Jarvan traced it, internally frowning, “That’s the neutral Hold, yes?”

“Right you are, and thank the gods for it,” the man gave a short abortive sigh, “Whiterun is under the guardianship of the Avorasan’s warmother. She’s managed to stay unaligned from either side, and her hold is probably the most reliable way to avoid the whole mess. If she hadn’t demanded safe trade routes through to our neighbours, the majority of Skyrim’s rural areas would have starved by this stage.”

“Whiterun, huh?” Shyvana, peering around Jarvan’s frame, blinked, gaze shifting to the mountain range resting just north of Riverwood, almost perfectly splitting the Hold from being a straight line north. Her eyes blinked over a familiar  word.

“The barrow?” she muttered, accidentally aloud. Lucian’s face curdled.

“Yeah, sunk into the mountain is Bleak Falls Barrow. A bunch of bandits have set up camp there, and they’ve been a right pest, especially considering . . .” his voice trailed off, and he eyed them speculatively, “say, fell free to reject me cold here, but you did _kill_ a sabre cat right? You didn’t just find those teeth?”

“Would I sell them otherwise?” she demanded, blunt and Jarvan let out a small exasperated huff.

Lucian just scratched the back of his head.

“Well, if it ain’t no trouble . . . would you two be willing to check out the bandit camp?” They both blinked at him and he hurriedly pressed on, “I’m not asking you to scout the whole thing, just search their coffers a bit. They stole a Golden Claw from my family’s home. It’s an heirloom, and both Camilla and I were distraught to find it gone.”

“A Golden . . . Claw?” Jarvan repeated, slowly, disbelieving, “Why would such a thing exist?”

“Gods if I know,” the man shook his head, “it’s old, maybe some sort of Dwemer artefact, but it’s important to us. "They exchanged a glance and Shyvana gave her companion’s expression a confident once over, knowing it matched her own.

Lucian pressed further, clearly worried about their enthusiasm, “You don’t have to bring it back. Just keep north to Whiterun - there are plenty of folks in the Hold who come to Riverwood, and they can-”

“We’ll get it back.” Jarvan interrupted him, smiling a bit crookedly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“R-Really?” he stoppered, eyes wide before beaming, clapping a hand on the man’s arm, “Well, that’s just fantastic! Knew you two were good folk the minute I laid eyes on you!”

“It shouldn’t take us long,” Shyvana spoke, voice cool, lightly gesturing for Jarvan to follow her out, “expect your claw back soon.”

“Take this with you,” he held out a thick hunting knife, “that barrow’s unsafe if you get too far in.”

The door swung shut behind them. Shyvana adjusted her cowl and her red eyes burnt, over the river, up the mountain, to the cold black ruins ugly in the distance.

“These people have been plagued by bandits,” she growled, temper rigidly in check, “and they didn’t hesitate to help us.”

Beside her, Jarvan’s gaze was similarly frigid, “Then we’re in accord.”

 

* * *

 

Bleak Falls Barrow was a set of vastly unappealing black ruins clinging to the top of a mountain trail, right in the centre of the mountain range that separated Whiterun Hold from the Deep South of Skyrim. For a supposed bandit camp, it was dreadfully empty of any life.

“What a ghastly place,” Jarvan wrinkled his nose beside her, reaching up to swing open the deteriorating wooden doors, “surely bandits have better standards.”

“Not many alternatives when there’s a war going on.” She pointed out sardonically beside him and he just rolled his eyes.

“You know what I meant.”

The room before them was really more of a cavern, sweeping rock formations poking up through long gone floors, the remnants of columns holding up a moss-coated ceiling, glowing lichen eerie in the cold winds that easily penetrated the ruined walls.

The door thudded shut behind them and Shyvana sent her companion a dry look. He shrugged.

“Whoops?”

“Arvel? That you?”

The both sobered at the unknown voice, Jarvan stepping back behind the nearest column, Shyvana . Leather boots tapped against stone, the bobbing light of a torch lighting up the cavern behind them. 

“I’m telling ya!” A woman growled in Nordic, “He went into the Barrow! I saw him!”

“You were half asleep, Gelda!” Another bandit grumbled, “No one in his right mind would go down there.”

“He was jittery though,” Another mused, voice considerably older “and that weird statue he swiped from Riverwood’s gone.”

“So he just went to pawn it. Who gives a shit?”

“No, he went into the barrow!” The woman insisted, indignant, “I know it!”

“Then he’s dead,” the first grumbled, “and if he’s dead, who’s banging the doors?”

There was a moment of silence as torchlight flew over the cavern, and Shyvana exhaled, flexing her fingers. 

As one of the men came right past them to examine the door, Shyvana lashed out, sharpened nails slicing his head clean off.

“What the fuck-!?” The other two barely reacted before an arrow thudded into the older one’s head and Shyvana had struck at the woman, stabbing through to the heart, blood dripping down from her nails.

“You think that’s all of them, save for this Arvel guy?”

“Sounded like it.” Shyvana absently wiped the blood off on the bandit’s clothes, relieving them of their coins and lock picks, “Do we wait, or do we head down? If he’s got the claw, then he’s our priority.”

Jarvan inspected the dead woman for a moment, before slinging his bow back over his shoulder and scrounging a torch from the rudimentary campsite to hold, “I hate waiting.”

Shyvana lit it up with a quick wave of her hand, leading the way down.It continued on as a cavern for a while, snow drifting in through the cracks, before slowly the steps became more hewn, and the walls became less moss covered. A single wooden door marked what was likely the entrance into the Barrow proper.

Jarvan pushed the door open and immediately grimaced as his hand came back covered in white strings of silk.

Shyvana went rigid.

“Lovely. Hey, Shyvana, does your fire . . . Shyvana?”

“Nope.” She pivoted on her heel, “nope, nope, no way, I will do bandits, I’ll do sabrecats, I’ll even do the dragon-”

“But spiders are where you cross the line?” He drawled, sarcastic, and she scowled

“Hey, you don’t like water rats, I have an issue with crawly things the size of dogs.”

He caught her wrist.

“Look, we just need to get the claw then we can leave. Just . . . see if you can burn a path.”

 _Just_ burn a path? Into the den of icky, sticky, crawly spiders, with their eight legs, and beady eyes and feelers that got tangled in hair and

“Shyvana?” Jarvan squeezed her hand, “It’s okay. I promise. I won’t let the crawlies bite.”

She looked at him, mouth very thin because his tone was definitely teasing at the end but she _was_ willing to hold him to that promise - and when was the last time anyone had ever promised her anything?

Not since-

She cut the thought off viciously, yanking out the sapling before it had even sprouted.

“Whatever,” she pulled her wrist free, hoping he wouldn’t begrudge the slight coldness in her tone, and held out her fire rune marked hand. Flames sparked in her palm, before bursting out into a manageable stream, devouring the silken net eagerly. She stepped back as the fire caught and the entire passageway became a bonfire, the heat tingling over them, enough to have sweat trickling down between the furs wrapped around her neck.

When the bonfire died down, Jarvan improvised a duster from some fabric off the clothes from a nearby bandit, brushing away the ash and dust.

“Shall we?”

She bristled at the coddling tone, marching past him.

“Indeed. Keep up, Imperial.”

The ash shifted under her boots, creating a truly pleasant sound that was only matched by Jarvan’s amused snort behind her.

Her indignation scampered away at the first sound of scuttling feet, a definite hint of arachnids, agitated over their destroyed webs. She reached out and wrapped her hands around Jarvan’s arm, gripping tightly. She was stiff, waiting for him to tease, but he just held the torch up higher and shortened his strides to match hers.

They seemed to descend into silence, the deeper in they went, the less the sounds outside the mountain penetrated. The ashes of the webs trailed on before them led them down the winding tunnel, before eventually stopping at a brick wall, a charred eight-legged carcass curled in on itself, unable to escape the bonfire.

Before Shyvana had the sense to turn heel and the get the fuck out, Jarvan grunted beside her, pulling away to inspect whatever his toe had just caught on.

“Shyv can you hold the light?”

“I hate everything about this.” she responded, dark, nevertheless taking the torch and holding it out. Jarvan squatted down and his fingers traced the lines in the tiles, hooking into the edge of one and lifting it with a satisfied grunt.

With a distinct ‘click’ the wall before them seemed to open up, the bricks peeling away as white silken threads were torn apart on the other side.

Shyvana grimaced.

“Do we really have to go down here? If we’re looking for this Arvel guy, the whole webbed doorway seems to argue against him coming down here.”

“We saw no one on our way up,” Jarvan argued, annoyingly reasonable, “and in the time that he snatched the claw from the Trader, returned to the Barrow to allow the other bandits to see it, and then leaving without them noticing, we should have intercepted him. He has to have come down here.” She made sure he could see her very thin mouth, one hand clutching her elbow as the other handed back the torch, hastily burning away as much of the web as she could.

Stepping through, their boots rang out on significantly higher quality stone, torchlight bouncing off considerably taller ceilings. Jarvan held out a protective arm for Shyvana as they made though an ancient chamber, packed to the walls with carved  jars and stone tables, ancient wrought-iron gates rusting in the doorways.

“What is this?” Shyvana whispered, her voice echoing uncomfortably in the silence. Spiderwebs still clung in the gaps, and they began carefully advancing through.

Jarvan held his torch up to the walls.

“It’s some sort of ceremonial building,” he read aloud, “for preparing the dead.”

“Top ten things I didn’t need to know about,” she grumbled, and he groaned as her elbow dug into his ribs.

And then they heard the scream.

They both jumped as a high pitched wailed ricocheted through the ruins, coming from ahead of them. Their entire surroundings fell silent, the sort of silent that made one appreciate that the previous silence hadn’t actually been silent and Shyvana swore she could feel eyes peering into her from the shadows. Unfortunately, she was already being dragged forward as Jarvan took off in the direction of the sound.

“Hello?!” his voice bounced off the walls, deep and echoing, “Is anyone there?!”

“Jarvan, what the fuck?!” she hissed, tugging at his fingers.

“Down here, oh gods!” the terrified shriek came from their right and he darted down into a small little antechamber, ignoring Shyvana’s increasingly colourful swearing. A few mouldy potions were buried in spiderwebs, and at the far end, where an empty walkway led down into a further corridor, an immense web had been erected to blockade the whole exit. And a Dunmer was thrashing in it.

The sickly grey looking Mer brightened up upon spotting them.

“Get me out of here!” he shrieked, “It’s coming back, it’s coming back!”

“What’s coming back?” Shyvana immediately demanded, “and why should we free a bandit?”

His gaze swept over her brightening, “Ah, Sister, please, you wouldn’t abandon your kin, get me down, I beg you!”

Shyvana’s fury bled through her entire body (how _dare_ he), but her companion was already moving.

“Keep still, we’re coming,” Jarvan moved the torchlight against the immense silk meshing, “can you burn it and not him?”

“Doubt it.”

“All right, stay still,” Jarvan yanked out Lucian’s hunting knife and held it out to Shyvana. Her eyes lit up with understanding and she clamped her hand over the blade. A few drops of blood tapped against the ground, but her rune pulsed and slowly the blade began burning red, heat blazing out. Jarvan turned to the man.

“Arvel?” he asked, and the elf stared at him, defensively.

“Who’s asking?”

“We met your friends above,” Jarvan swiftly dodged, “and this will set the web on fire eventually so you need to get ready to rip yourself free.”

“Wait-rip-?!”

“Now.” Shyvana released her hand and Jarvan immediately turned. The web hissed as the burning blade connected, cutting through the coagulated spider silk instantly, black smoke began to rise. Arvel only needed a free arm before he was tearing at the webs, stripping himself of any armour that was too stuck, and struggling out. His wild thrashing whipped the silken mess like a flag, the entire room almost vibrating from the ripples.

She didn’t like it _at all_.

“Hurry up, _please_ , we don’t know what we might have missed,” she hurried her companion, who was busy focusing on delicately removing his knife. She set her hand against the thing and it lit up with her fire, Jarvan stumbling back as the silk burnt off his knife.

He recovered, sending her a reassuring glance, “If it still hasn’t attacked, it’s probably hiding. We should be fine-”

A loud screeching hiss sounded directly above them and all three screamed, pressing themselves up against the walls, Shyvana already preparing to reach her magika, as Jarvan turned to the rescued bandit.

“Arvel, if possible . . .” he watched the man flee down the newly available tunnel without a second glance, “well, your welcome.”

“We can get him later.” Shyvana yanked him back to attention. Her ears flickered with each sound, the large shifting movements no quite indicative of a typical frostbite spider, and her eyes piercing the dark for any suspicious thoraxes. At the tell-tale sign of movement, she gathered fire in her palm and hurled it.

The giant frostbite spider dodged with a shriek of outrage, its immense mass scraping along the ceiling as it dropped down before them, towering higher than their heads.

Shyvana blanched.

Jarvan yanked her back, torch clattering to the ground. “Get the best shot you can!” His bow was out and the first arrow flew true, striking into the monstrous arachnid’s biggest eye. It screamed and the front feelers thrashed wildly. They both ducked to avoid the razor-like appendages. As it passed over his head, Jarvan flipped the dagger in his grip and struck at the joint. In a wet splash of hissing gunk, the limb was cut clean off and the giant frostbite spider squealed, its entire body dropping to the ground. Shyvana tried to unlock her limbs whilst the thorax rolled right by her, on its way to crush Jarvan. He dove out of the way in time, but a side leg struck out, connecting with his back and sending him slamming into the carved walls.

Shyvana jolted at his pained cry.

“Jarvan?!”

“I’m fine . . . _gah_ ,” he spat out a tooth, “just a _wall_ to the fa-”

he ducked as mandibles almost bit off his head, the frost spider enraged beyond belief.

Shyvana inhaled rapidly, eyeing the immense exposed body right in front of her.

Just move. Move. Move.

Her hands dug into the walls, nails sharpened enough that they ground in, and she lunged. She didn’t so much strike the giant arched as she did tackle it, talons sinking into the thorax as she threw her draconic strength into wrenching it to the ground. As the spider hair tickled her skin, she felt her freeze reflex try to lock her body and she just slammed her eyes shut and conjured her fire.

Her rune _seared_ , trying to manage the torrents of fire that erupted from her body, encircling her and streaming from her hands, melting into the beast now desperately trying to thrash itself free from the nails sunken into its hide.

As the arachnid’s thorax turned from flesh from charcoal, she just balled her fists and slammed them straight down. Her blow shattered the charred beast into a cloud of ash and they both gagged.

The torch had been decidedly lost to the fire, so she just conjured a small flame to her fingers, waving away the  dust.

Jarvan’s head knocked against the wall he was still leaning against, eyebrows raised.

“. . . You were on fire.”

“Yeah,” she stumbled back, trying to swipe off all the spider ash clinging to her, “I burnout pretty fast though, so I don’t use it much.”

He held out a hand and she obliged him, yanking the Imperial up by the wrist so they could inspect the blackened remains of the antechamber. He just eyed her appraisingly.

“You certainly hate spiders.”

“. . . Bad past choices.” she grumbled out, flushing slightly but contenting himself that he wouldn’t be able to tell under their already heat flushed faces. He hummed inquiringly and she swallowed even harder.

“Accidentally hooked up with a Priestess of Mephala. Eternal beauty in exchange for . . . spidery characteristics.”

If Shyvana ever saw Elise Kythera again, she was burning the High Elf into an eight-legged crisp.

She was expecting him to laugh, so when Jarvan’s expression instead contorted, she slowed, ire rising.

“Oh, and what about that crossed the line, Imperial? Sleeping unmarried, with a girl, or with a Daedric worshipper?” Her temper spiked with each part and he raised his hands defensively.

“Just imagining it and feeling horrified That’s it.”

That was a lie. “Really.”

His expression didn’t change. “I would rather we didn’t talk about the Daedra. Fair?”

“Enough,” she pivoted on her heel, “now let’s go get that little shit.”

“. . . And the claw.”

“And the claw.” She thought for a moment, “He’s more important.”

He still looked uneasy, but the last bit got enough of a chuckle that she decided to ignore it.

However, as they worked their way down through the chamber, Shyvana’s opportunity for stress release was denied as Jarvan’s foot knocked something. They both glanced down. Shyvana’s lips curled.

“Well  _shit_.”

Arvel’s decapitated head leered up at them, eyes wide and fixated, jaw loose and tongue dragging on the ground. Jarvan’s hand shot towards his quiver, but she held up a hand, squinting in the darkness. It wasn’t her forte, but she’d learnt a few tricks along the way.

“There.” she pointed out the slightly off kilter stone in the floor, “it’s trapped. He must have triggered one.”

“One?” Jarvan repeated, faintly indignant and she nodded.

“There’s always more.”

“Hnn.”

“I’m more concerned with where his body went.” Shyvana turned to scour the darkness, “saves us the trouble. I guess.”

“Lucky us,” Jarvan crouched down, running his hands along the ground.

She sighed, “Just follow me.”

 Slowly, they began working their way through the old carved corridor, Shyvana’s flame held near enough to their feet that Jarvan was likely feeling the heat, but enough to warn of any potentially suspicious stones or tripwires. Halfway through, a headless corpse was lying amidst similarly decapitated skeletons, and Jarvan exhaled, crouching down and rummaging through its pockets, as Shyvana swept a hand around them. He mumbled something, and she flickered her gaze down.

“What?”

“Nothing, just . . .” he sighed, “wondering what my father would think if he could see me; rummaging around a dead bandit’s clothes in the middle of a death-trapped tomb under a mountain.”

“You’re performing a service to the community,” she drawled back in reply, “surely he’d appreciate that.”

A short bitter laugh was her response.

Her forehead flickered down, but he let out a triumphant ha! before she could push. In his right hand was a golden statuette, legitimately formed in the shape of a claw.

“What an ugly little thing.” she crouched down beside him, as he turned it over.

“I suppose it _looks_ Dwemer,” Jarvan was musing, “but these marking certainly aren’t.”

On the underside of the claw, three small protruding circles had animal engravings on them – a bear, a moth and an owl.

“I guess it’s pretty.” she took it from him to give it her own inspection, running her fingers along the hooked golden talons, “don’t know why a bandit would kill his fellows for it. Doesn’t seem to be anything more than a trinket.”

“Maybe,” he held out something that was definitely a diary, “our friend Arvel can tell us himself.”

She pushed aside some of the bodies in order to better squat beside him, flame held over the crude writing.

She might know how to speak most of Tamriel’s languages to at least conversational fluency, but her reading was jackshit, so she waited for her companion to do it in her stead.

Fortunately, Jarvan seemed to have a habit of reading aloud.

“ . . . Key to Bleak Falls Barrow . .  . Hall of Stories . . . keep the unworthy away . . . ‘the solution is in the palm of your hands’.” He sat back, “What the hell is the Hall of Stories?”

“Maybe it’s that big embalming place?” Shyvana got back to her feet, slotting the claw into her bag, “Who cares anyway? We have the claw, so let’s head back up.”

“No, that wasn’t the Hall of Stories - there would have been some sort of carving,” he frowned, “maybe it’s further in the barrow.”

“Great, but none of our business,” she shot down, “let’s go.”

Jarvan lifted himself up, with a heavy gasp of breath that was definitely unnecessary, before sending her a slightly entreating look.

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Not really,” she juggled her fire, “I get that this is your first time dungeon diving, Jarvan, but I guarantee the only things in these sorts of places are rotting wood and rusted weapons. And draugr. We’ll get more from just returning this to Lucian.”

“You said it yourself; why would someone kill their fellows just for a single claw? There’s something bigger down here.”

“I definitely didn’t say it like that, and I’d much prefer being in the safe open outdoors.”

He rolled his eyes and took a step backwards to glance down the rest of the hall.He stumbled, as his foot landed on an off-kilter tile and it slid smoothly down under his weight.

They both froze at the clean and condemning ‘click’.

Shyvana moved faster.

“Jarvan, down!” She snapped, kicking his legs out from under him as she dropped onto her back. A dull thump heralded Jarvan’s body hitting the nearby ground as a dozen spikes thundered around them, raining against the wall. Her arms were up, shielding her face, and feeling the very wind of the darts as they flew past her.

For a brief moment, all was still.

Shyvana peered out from her fingers, arms bearing glancing scratches from some of the needles.

“Is that it?” she asked. Even she was surprised at how much her voice trembled. Across from her, Jarvan slowly and carefully got to his feet, body rigid from tension.

“I think so . . .” he murmured, “we should be good now.”

She took the offered hand, wincing as her sides cracked. Rolling her neck, she gave him a once over.

“How are you holding up?” she asked, slightly wary. She hadn’t meant to knock him over that hard but it had been an emergency.

He took a good moment to think about it, spinning his arms and twisting his body.

“Intact?”

“Well that’s one relief,” she held up a hand, small flames crackling in it, casting the ruins into the light, “better than most others, clearly.”

Jarvan followed her gaze and winced.

The walls, old and weak enough to crumble from the darts, were decorated with the skewered corpses of unlucky bandits, treasure hunters or anyone else unlucky enough to wander into the barrow and become lost.

 Shyvana trailed her free hand over a small skull, milk teeth exposed in terror. Jarvan’s gloved hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing softly.

“Let’s go, Shyvana.”

She stared at the small pointed ears, muttered a small prayer of mercy to the Prince of the Hunt, and padded over to join her companion.

The ground rumbled around them.

“Oh, now what?” She snarled, dropping into a wary stance.

“Run!” Jarvan roared and the pair took off, abandoning light feet for desperate speed. Shyvana yelped as her foot left a piece of ground that almost immediately fell out under her, Jarvan cursing as the path fractured ahead and began to crumble before them.

“We’re not going to make it!” Shyvana yelled, trying to outrun the collapsing floor. Ahead, solid rock glinted tauntingly.

“We can make it!” Jarvan roared back, feet pounding against the ground. Shyvana stared, judged the distance and scowled.

“No, we’re not!” she tackled Jarvan just as the floor gave out beneath them, sending them plummeting into darkness. Shyvana yanked on his shirt as they fell, ensuring she was between his healing injuries and the floor beneath, just as her back slammed into stone.

A gasp tore from her as pain ricocheted through her spine, but it was replaced with a fierce groan as Jarvan’s weight slammed into her without room for respite, and even though his injuries were cushioned he was still very very heavy. She squinted, face full of grey fur, as he didn’t make any move to get off within the few generous seconds she gave him.

“Jarvan,  _get off_ -”

“It’s amazing,” he breathed above her, shifting and helping her up, “just . . . just look.”

She got upright, stretching her back out with a groan, and her mouth ever so slightly parted in surprise. Surrounding them were elaborate ruins, golden carved brickwork enshrining them in the centre of a subterranean highway, both ends vanishing into darkness. Light emitted through the halls despite no apparent source and Shyvana ever so slightly pulled up her lips at the foreign feel in the air.

Jarvan had no such hesitation.

“This must be the original barrow,” he breathed, crouching down beside the wall and running his hand over the carved stones, “the rest of the mountain formed around it, and the caverns above were made to cut a path down here.”

“I don’t like it,” she produced a flame in her palm, growl imbedded in her tone, “the only fools who came this deep were the Dwemer or the insane. And this is definitely not Dwemer.”

Even just the small, controlled light gave her stretched nerves respite and she swept it over the cavern, gazing upwards. They must have fallen about one and a half stories, by the decomposed roof above them, and she squinted.

“We’re not climbing back up, that’s for sure.”

In her own tongue, she bid the Daedra play with the ruins to their contentment. The words caught Jarvan’s attention, as much open unease now as at the slight mention before, but she appreciated how he pushed aside well-meaning values of despise-anything-that-worships-the-Daedra in favour of examining the two directions.

“We might as well pick one,” he dragged fingers through his hair, “I’m presuming one leads on and the other will carry us back to up there.”

She turned and deliberately gave him a scathing look. She’d been okay traipsing the creepy cavern. She’d put up with the spiders. She was about to draw a very hard line at going deeper into ruins left by god knows who.

He sent her a small half smile and she huffed.

“Fine. Which way?”

“You pick. You’ve got the light.”

She rolled her eyes at him, before brushing past with enough force to shove, and headed in the direction that took her feet down.

If they had been quiet through the upper levels of the barrow, now they were virtually mute, footsteps echoing like tolling bells in the oppressive silence. They were deep - the kind of deep where the outside can simply no longer reach, so one’s simply left with the voices in their head, all of which are more than happy to fill the void. It seemed forever that the highway continued, shifting and swerving, spiralling up and down and over and under, the carved walls all detailed and unique. More than once, her companion had slowed down and she’d groan, stop and walk back to drag him away.

She’d wager they’d been going for about thirty minutes as she pulled him away again.

“Trust me to get stuck with a scholar.” she sneered, voice cracking the silence with the same level of subtlety as a rat in a kitchen. Beside her Jarvan paused a step, before doubling his speed to fall in beside her, wielding an expression that looked entirely too affronted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, voice a very slippery balance between demanding and teasing.

She just flared her nostils, unsure which tone pissed her off more.

“It means that I’m wandering around ruins crafted by who knows what, on the words of a bandit, and my only companion wants to stop and translate every single rune he sees.”

“Yes, we indeed don’t know who built this place,” he flashed his teeth at her, “all the more reason to study the carvings.”

The highway dropped before them, slightly cracked and she easily picked her way through the uneven staircase, holding out a hand to help Jarvan down.

“So? Anything worthwhile yet?” she drawled, “Or are you just wasting our time with your bookish tendencies?”

He rolled his eyes as he leapt down to join her, the pair ducking into a slightly smaller pathway.

“As a matter of fact: yes. I’m not sure but I think this was built by the Iceborn.”

The name rang a distant bell, “I’ve heard it but . . .”

“The ancestors of current day Nords.” He supplied, ducking under an overhang that he was slightly too tall for, “They claimed Skyrim, routing the Forsworn to the Reach, under the direction of ancient deities modern scholars translate as the ‘Watchers’.”

“Probably the Daedra- finally!” Whatever response bringing the Daedra up again might incite, both were distracted at the sight of a door, old and rotten in its rusting frame. Jarvan went to push it open, and they both watched as the hingers cracked and broke, the door falling and shattering into splinters. Around them, the sound echoed.

“Whoops.” He mumbled, sounding so perplexed that she had to muffle a snigger.

“Come on then, there must be something here,” she ducked under his arm and her footsteps slowed, “Hey Jarvan, what’s a barrow again?”

“Pretty archaic word; Nords used to bury their dead-” he stepped out beside her and let out a small mumbled, “right. Like that.”

The highway was nothing compared to what was before them - immense carved catacombs, stretching above their heads, arched and woven with ruins, the cobblestones half buried in dust. And carved into the walls were tombs of countless upon countless skeletons.

“So this is what all the traps were protecting,” Jarvan grimaced, “makes sense.”

Shyvana scanned them, stiff. “You don’t think any draugr are mixed in there, do you?”

Jarvan unhooked his bow and set an arrow on the string, “Almost certainly.”

 

Every crack, every creak, every shift of dirt, made them jump, backs together and eyes scanning for a hint of traitorous movement. It would be fine to take down a single damned soul, but Shyvana didn’t fancy getting swarmed.  The current situation was bringing to mind a rather dreadful image of a time in Elswyr, when she’d once watched as a lion was devoured by a whole horde of ants. Her foot cracked on a lost femur bone and she jumped violently.

Jarvan’s hand latched onto her wrist and they both went still.

Not a single skeleton twitched. No eyes pulsed blue.

They both exhaled.

“Well, this wasn’t quite what I signed up for,” Jarvan muttered and she couldn’t suppress the snort, gingerly interlocking her fingers with his and continuing to pull them through. She was just toeing over a couple of ancient rib cabges when the hand in hers seemed to hesitate, Jarvan slowing down.

“Um, by the way, I kind of didn’t answer properly” in the silence, Jarvan’s voice seemed to echo and he hushed even further, “about the whole . . . sleeping with girls thing-”

“Jarvan, I really don’t care, now is not the best time.”

“No, I mean,” if she could hear the swallow, it was too loud for their surroundings, “I . . . I like boys.”

There was a moment where they were actually, appropriately, silent.

“Oh.” Her tone was something odd, an emotion she couldn’t place. Anger? No. Sadness? Not quite. She’d felt it before but anger filled most of her memories. “I see.”

“I like girls too.” he quickly added, as if responding to her still unknown tone. “I like boys and girls. Both. I like both.”

“Okay Jarvan.”

He let out an abortive huff, “Gods this is off track - I’m just, I don’t care if you’ve slept with girls. Cyrodiil in general might but I hope I’m never going to be that hypocritical.”

Another very thick silence and she cleared her throat, awkward, “Umm . . . thanks? For the record, I like both too. Or, more like I don’t care. If I like them, I like them, if I want to sleep with them, I’ll sleep with them. I’ve never really cared much for the whole boy/girl thing.”

“Right. Yeah, makes sense.” Jarvan held up a torch to inspect a gaping eye socket, “this really isn’t the time and place, is it?”

“You’re the one who brought it up, bookman.”

He let out a small, half-relieved laugh, and tightened his grip around her fingers.

They really had been talking too loud.

A coffin door fell off as a skeleton struggled out with a warbled cry, blue light pulsing from its eye socket.

Shyvana jolted, and Jarvan already had an arrow flying into its skull.

They remained frozen as it fell down, magika fading.

And then there was a cry behind him.  
Jarvan swore, yanking out multiple arrows as the catacombs came alive. Shyvana just moved to his wrist, gripping hard enough that it likely pressed into his burnt skin.

“Don’t bother – run!”

She took off, moving at a pace slightly too fast for an Elf, but situation was situation.

He managed to surprisingly keep up, even managing to fire into the rapidly growing crowd of reanimated skeletons charging them down through the walls.

Some had begun to awake in front of them and Shyvana hurled a ball of fire forwards, swearing as it went to high.

And then she jumped as it instead smashed into a vase and the oil filled casket exploded, searing the upper torsos of the draugr to ash.

“What just happened?!” Jarvan roared over the growing din of the draugr and she just continued forward.

“Don’t worry about it!”  
“I’m a little _beyond worried_ right now!”  
Her boot splashed against gasoline-soaked grounds as she wove her way desperately around the tomb, eyes narrowing down on a cavern up ahead.

“This way!”  
She abruptly changed direction and Jarvan yelped as he almost slipped on the damp floor.

They emerged into an expansive hall, where all that awaited them was a giant door sealed by three rings. Shyvana swore very colourfuly.  
“Try and break it!” Jarvan yanked his arm free and turned to face the oncoming horde.

She didn’t bother with sentiment, pulling back her fist and charging.

At full power, she’d once demolished a house.

Pain echoed through her hands as she didn’t leave a dent, stumbling back with a gasp of pain, blinking in shock at the door.

Panic was increasing, far, far too fast as she glanced around desperately. Her eyes alighted on another one of those oil caskets, dangling from a wire.

Unfortunately, panic often helped one make very stupid decisions and she didn’t hesitate to grab it, turning to sprint back towards her friend.

“Behind me!” Shyvana roared, her feet skidding over the loose stones, oil sloshing in the casket. Jarvan’s last arrow flew, one more draugr down, useless as the rest kept swarming. He didn’t bother standing his ground, turning and sprinting for Shyvana. They passed each other, and Shyvana let a single flame spark in the casket. Heat immediately blossomed under her fingertips as she hurled the casket straight into the horde. Jarvan’s hand gripped her arm, saving her face from smashing into the ground as she almost slipped from the effort. As the casket flew, it hit the ground and the old, brittle glass shattered on impact, the burning oil unleashed.

The gasoline soaking the floors took a lick of the flame and the entire corridor exploded. The two fell back as the wave of heat erupted before them, undead screams filling the cavern as columns of fire rampaged through the catacombs. Even with her not inconsiderable resistance, Shyvana felt her eyes water from the heat, skin prickling. Fortunately, her position meant that Jarvan had fallen behind her and she could block some of the proximal burning, but his cheeks were flushed, eyes watery and hair thoroughly heat blasted.

Slowly the din died down, charred skeletons hitting the old stones as ash, the last of the fires flickering out with nothing left to burn, and Shyvana exhaled.

“Gone,” she exhaled, “they’re all gone.”

It said something that she immediately stiffened, waiting for something to contradict her words. When the barrow was forthcoming enough to stay silent, her shoulders slumped, and she tipped her head back, lips twerking in relief.

Jarvan looked furious.

“What in all the gods’ names were you thinking?” he demanded, reaching out and digging his fingers into her shoulders, cheeks flushed red with anger.

The sharp pain made her startle, and she felt her teeth pull back, anger flooding into place.“I just saved your life, asshole!” she roared, eyes narrowed to their tightest slits, but he just seemed to grow angrier to match it.

“That could have exploded in your hands! You could have missed and had an entire horde of draugr come down on top of you!”

“It would have come down on both of us!” she snapped back, “Between that, and maybe blowing myself up, I’d rather the option where we come out alive, asshole!”

“YOU CAN’T DIE!” The words almost ripped from him, echoing around the hall and dispersing into the stones, the fight seemingly draining from both. Jarvan’s hands were stiff at her shoulders, but his head was loose, staring faintly at the ground.

“Not you too. Not you t-too . . .”

Oh.

Shyvana blinked at him, slowly, understanding filling in. This wasn’t about her at all.

Ever so tentatively, almost nervously she reached out and draped her arms over his shoulders, running fingers over his back.

“It’s okay,” she hedged, hesitant, “I’m okay.”

The hands at her shoulders trembled, before he fell forwards, head in her arms and hands wrapped tight around her, as Jarvan began to cry.

His broken sobs replaced the silence, the wailing of a child muffled in her shirt.

She continued to hold his trembling body, slightly taken aback.

_How long had he been holding this in? Since Helgen-? No. Longer. Far, far longer._

She remained silent, and simply wrapped her arms around him tighter.

 

Slowly, he began to dry out, pulled himself together, and sat back whilst scrubbing at puffy eyes.

She tilted her head, eyebrow raised.“All good now?”

“Y-yeah,” he sniffed hard, “thanks. Let’s not mention that again.”She stared at him, long and hard, before rocking back onto her heels and standing up with a groan, hand extended.

“Your tears are safe with me.”

He grinned, a bit less wobbly, gripped her hand and allowed himself to be hauled up.

Side by side, they walked up to the huge golden door awaiting them, the three rings looming out above a claw shaped keyhole.

At the centre of each ring, an animal carving stuck out proudly.

Together, they dug their hands into the stone rings and heaved. Dust flew from the gaps as the ancient stonework ground its way through the loop, all three old and unwilling to give even an inch.

Bear, Moth, Owl. They stepped back to examine their handiwork, admiring the new animal arrangement in the rings.

“If this fails, I’m killing you before the darts do,” Shyvana warned, tossing the claw to her companion. He laughed, moved forward, and sunk the claw in without hesitation. He snatched his hand back at the click, as the golden statuette moved into the wall of its own accord. With a faint groan, all three rings began rolling around, until the Owl was the only animal aligned on all of them, the claw moving back out with it. Jarvan gingerly took it back, Shyvana gripping his arm tight, as the entire door slid down before them, exposing the cavern within.

She immediately tightened her grip, nose in the air.

“Fresh air!” she brightened, “Jarvan, there’s a way out in here!”

“What is here?” he stepped forward, her at his side and they both took a moment of pause.

In stark contrast to the barrow, this place looked identical to the caverns at the very top of the barrow - sweeping natural walls, rivulets cascading around them, uneven paths overgrown with glowing mosses.

In fact, the only manmade looking structure was a spherical dais, sunk into the back wall, and Shyvana eagerly began picking her way over, Jarvan trailing right on her heels.

It was even kind enough to have some steps carved in, revealing an immense coffin overlooking the cavern, backdropped by an immense carved wall.

Her eyes fixated on it.

It was coated top to bottom with runes she couldn’t have understood if she tried, but that wasn’t what drew her attention. Her eyes were drawn to a small, single word, emblazoned into the base of the wall, pulsing blue.

She knew the word. She’d never seen it written before, but, intimately, she knew exactly how to read it.

 _Fus_.

What the ever loving fuck was _that_ doing on some ancient barrow wall?

She jumped at the sound of snapping bone, spinning around.

Jarvan was standing, slightly embarrassed, over the open coffin. “There’s a skeleton in here - I sort of punched in its skull on reflex.” he admitted, “Something caught your attention?”

“Yeah, look at this-” She glanced over her shoulders and paused to find the blue aura gone, the words just regular stone. Jarvan came up beside her.

“What am I looking at?”

She shot him a curious glance, before running her fingers over the carving. “This word here. It’s the Dovah word for ‘Force’.”

“Dovah?”

“The language of the dragons.” He paused, sending her a sharp look which definitely held a question she was going to ignore. Swallowing, she spun away.

“What about you? Anything in the coffin?”

“There’s some pretty cool weaponry in there, oh, and the skeleton has some sort of stone in his chest.”Curiosity piqued, she moved over to examine the dead thing, and, sure enough, a dark stone tablet was enshrined in the skeleton’s rib cage. Removing a pair of immense gauntlets that were sort of armour and really more just sharpened claws you held in your fists, she wrapped her hand around the larger’s grip and slammed the sharp edge into the skeleton’s ribcage.

Jarvan whistled beside her, “No respect for the dead, huh?”

“You broke his skull first, asshole.” She sniped back, “I’m just acting on your heresy to gain knowledge.”

He nodded, face deliberately smooth.

“Of course, of course. Heathen.”

“Prick.” She gingerly placed the gauntlet down, reaching in to pull out the tablet and blew. Ancient engravings covered the entire thing, but, hand against it, she could feel the way it thrummed with magic.

“. . . This is it.” she mumbled, “this is what this whole fucking barrow is protecting. The traps, tomb, claw, they were made to keep this safe.”

“Seems legit since they literally buried it in some poor sod’s chest cavity,” Jarvan ran his own hand over it, and she could even feel his weaker magika reserves echoing in response, “it feels . . . off.”

“Right?” She stuffed in it her bag, alongside the claw, before eyeing the pair of gauntlets. “I might keep these.”

“If you’re carrying them, go for it. Though, now that you mention it . . .” he reached over to retrieve a stack of old arrows, dumping them in his quiver. “I’m not keen on going back and digging my old ones out from the ashes of a draugr horde.”

“In that case,” she hoisted up the gauntlets, testing the grips, “time to get the fuck out of here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chaton: Time to Post  
> Brain: Rewrite it  
> Chaton: . . . it's 9pm, friday. we post 10pm friday-  
> Brain: ReWrItE IT  
> Chaton: HNNNNNNNNN
> 
> So twenty-four hours behind, but done (fist clenches)
> 
> Chatonnerie dearly wishes she never has to make these two go dungeon diving again. Skyrim isn't making promises.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos/commented \^o^/


	3. Dragonborn

Bleak Falls Barrow, as it turned out, tunneled straight through the mountain. So, before Jarvan had the chance to fully process that Shyvana was _sniffing_ their way out, they’d broken through the north side of the range as if it were a mere egg shell, skidding down a short slope of loose granite into Whiterun Hold proper. Immense farmlands spread out before them, a watchtower just up ahead and the Hold capitol in the distance. A solid few hours walk, and they’d be well on the way to acquiring that wagon out of Skyrim.

Jarvan let his bow slide off his shoulder, legs waning underneath, as he dropped back onto his back.

The sun was starting to near the horizon, the cloud cover surprisingly thin enough to not hide the orange light trickling over the sky.

With the sun beginning its descent, they must have spent the whole afternoon underground. Their descent into the Barrow had taken them straight through the _entire_ mountain range.

At his side, Shyvana just flopped backwards, face tilted to the sky. Her bag clattered against the stone ground, and she kicked off her boots, wiggling toes.

They took a moment to just rest there, breaths soft in the light winds and hair flickering around their eyes.

Despite the distinct itch around his eyes, courtesy of his somewhat mortifying breakdown in the barrow (and the rabbit hole that his panic had done its best to dig open), it was perplexing to realise he was smiling. Aches in his cheeks and the rabid heart beats of elation, his entire body actually seemed geared towards _enjoyment_.

It could just be the elation over leaving the tunnels, but it had also been _fun_. Walking around ancient tombs, fighting monsters - the kind of thing he would never have been allowed do without a full platoon of soldiers to lead the way in shield wall formations.

 _“Do what you want_.”

Was it bad that he couldn’t think of a single time anyone had said that to him?

Something Shyvana had clearly just thrown out, he was still coming to grips with it. 

He couldn’t go back to Cyrodiil (but the world was larger than Cyrodiil).

He had never lived beyond his duty, trying to achieve perfection for the sake of his country.

But now? (Now he was in control)

And in control, he had just fought his way through a giant tomb, with nothing but a bow and a walking flamethrower.

Beside him, Shyvana arched out her spine with a throat-deep growl.

“I have never suffered from claustrophobia,” she groaned, “but that place made me thoroughly reconsider such notions.”

He wondered if she would prod about his breakdown, but the entire thing seemed to have lifted out of her mind.

Then again, she had been thoroughly distracted by the wall, so maybe she would bring it up later.

As for the wall itself . . .

He shot her a glance, observing the way she was spread eagled, purple-black hair drifting around her and fire-eyes closed peacefully.He was aware, to some extent, that Shyvana was not a Dunmer. Or at least, a normal Dunmer. Ever after the Red Year, it was rare to find a Dark Elf so well traversed - and he had never heard even a rumour about a dragon hunting one down (He had never before heard a rumour about a dragon). Not to mention, no matter how good a polyglot one was, ‘well-traversed’ didn’t explain how one could read the dragon language.

“You’re very unsubtle when you’re staring,” she suddenly spoke up, not even opening her eyes. He started, before exhaling.

“Do you mind me doing it? I can stop, if you wish.”

“. . . Not really,” her voice was thoughtful, “I don’t really mind if it’s you.”

HIs lips tweaked up, fond. He should probably be concerned with how endeared he had become to this strange woman after knowing her for less than a week, but, then again, surviving execution, a dragon ambush, pneumonia and now some sort of Iceborn secret death cavern _would_ be ample cause for attachment to happen quickly.

Dropping his hand to the ground, he pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the joint cracks that were definitely going to be sore the next few days.

“You okay to get a move on?”Her eyes opened, staring at the sky for a brief moment. A short, grumbled huff, and then she complied, ignoring his extended hand to simply curl back up to her feet

Despite the chill in the air, she still reached back to pull up her cowl, effectively hiding her ears and shielding her facial features. 

Jarvan’s expression twisted at the action.

“Of all the Holds, Whiterun’s probably fine with Dark Elves.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she sent him a long, hard, curious look, much the same one she’d sent him when she snapped in the Barrow about her previous hookup, “it’s not like Cyrodiil’s any better.”

He physically bit his cheek at that, and gave a short nod, “I’m aware.”

There was a hard clip in his voice and she let out a small snort, head turning away.

“So what now?” He glanced over to find her examining her increasingly stuffed sack, Lucian’s claw and that eerie stone hogging more than their fair share of space. “I kind of grabbed the stone, but I don’t know what to do with it. It’s sort of freaking me out.”“Maybe there’s some sort of archaeologist in Whiterun,” he offered, “there’s a lot of ruins in Skyrim, right?”

“More in Elswyr, but I guess,” she closed it and swung it back under her cloak, “is there some cart we could hitch a ride on? I don’t want to carry this thing out in the open too much.”

He scanned their surroundings and squinted in the setting sun. “Do you think a watchtower might have a few spare horses?”

She almost immediately wrinkled her nose, “I _guess_. Why?”

He pointed to the small little tower of bricks, just set off from Whiterun, “A small detour, might get us to the capital faster than walking the whole way.”

“I’m okay with not walking.”

Whiterun was probably one of the least damaged Holds and south enough to not be permanently frigid, so it was almost nice, walking along well-maintained streets with farmlands woven through the boulders and thistles all around them, last of the sun on their backs, as the fragile looking structure grew larger in the distance, it’s shape a deep silhouette in the encroaching night.

Shyvana, meanwhile, had been growing increasingly irritable, constantly checking the stone, shifting her bag, and otherwise scowling at everything her gaze fell upon.

“Is it bothering you?” He finally asked, and she just wrenched it out.

_“Feel.”_

He arched an eyebrow, but nevertheless obliged her.

He’d barely laid a finger on it, before he snatched it back immediately, body going rigid.

It was _burning_.

“That’s been pressing against your leg?” He asked, alarmed and she scowled.

“Yeah, but it’s not _melting_ anything. It’s just reacting to our magicka and nothing else. It’s _weird_ , and I don’t like it.”

He looked down at it again, reaching down to ghost his fingers and almost twitching. 

The stone itself was actually cold, but the heat inside it seemed to be directly transmitting to his fingers, resonating with his magicka. Without warning, he paused, taking a moment to pulled off one of his numerous shirt layers and held out a hand.

“What’s that going to do?” She demanded, even as she handed it over for him to wrap up.

“Probably nothing. But another layer between it and our magicka can’t hurt.”

“Yes, it can.” She slid it into her rucksack and tested it against her leg for a moment, before grumbling. “Bit better. Oh well, I can deal with it like this. How far from the Watchtower?”“Probably another twenty minutes?” He offered generously and she scowled.

“My poor feet.”

“Can you _always_ find something to be annoyed about?”

She stared at him, and then a small flicker of mirth danced through her red-fire eyes, setting their alight in the growing darkness “Oh, I’m in a good mood right now.”

“. . . Really.”

“Oh yes. Weather’s nice. I’m alive. That’s pretty good, right?”

“You’ve been scowling at _everything_.”

“I do that.” There was a teasing lilt to her voice, “Maybe you just can’t tell because you’re always _so_ serious.”

“I’m not.”

“You always look like someone’s run your face over with a cart wheel.”

“I don’t!”

“Oh no, you definitely . . .” her voice trailed off, her gaze on the Watchtower, and her expression rapidly darkened, “Jarvan . . .”

He paused at her warning tone, glancing back. Shyvana’s eyes had contracted to fine slits, narrowed in on the tower, ever-present scowling tinged with concern.

“What?”

“They’re panicking.”

He followed her finger to where a whole platoon of Avarosan soldiers were organising themselves, arrows and axes being passed around, feverish tension making their movements resemble fervent ants. All around the Watchtower, torches were being lit up, desperately angled to the darkness enshrouding them.

He shared a small look with his companion, before he retrieved his bow just as she unhooked the gauntlets, backs moving together.

He felt it when she went rigid, the same horrified alertness from way back in the cart.

And the serenity of the farming valley was shattered by a ground shaking roar that Jarvan had hoped never to hear again.

Cries of alarm echoed from the tower as the immense reptilian beast came careening over the mountain range, bony wings beating the chilled air, gnarled face fixated on the tiny watchtower.

Jarvan blinked, in sudden, crisp, horrible, realisation.

“No way . . .” Shyvana whispered beside him, “that’s just not right.”

The watchtower guards all helplessly shot arrows as the beast collided with the tower, claws ripping off the top and sending blood pouring down the sides.

It roared, feral and untamed. In the light of the torches, silver-grey scales sparkled.

The two were crouched on the side, out of the combat, unnoticed by the dragon. Slowly, Jarvan turned, his eyes linking with his companion’s.

“Please tell me I’m imagining this.” he breathed, voice thick with aghast denial. Shyvana’s eyes were wide and her entire body had locked.

“That’s not her.” Shyvana spoke it aloud, “It’s _another_ dragon.”

 

It wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible.

Then again, the existence of a first dragon had also been considered impossible - the likelihood of another coming was not dependant on whether or not one dragon had already been seen, because the chances of any dragon appearing was always zero, which meant that

“You can try to quantify the universe’s attempt to fuck with us later, for now, move your ass!”Shyvana’s growl effectively cut through his (had he really just said that all out loud?) rambles, and her shove into his side was an equally effective means of getting him to start moving along behind the boulders.

They crawled through the thistles and mud, the ground shuddering around them as the immense roar echoed above. Shyvana was flicking her gaze between the dragon above and the capitol all the way in the distance.

“Hey, when it attacks the tower, we could try to sprint between the rocks. Far enough away and we can make for the city.”

He almost froze, glancing back at her in surprise. “What about the soldiers?”

“They’ll be our distraction.”

His spine crawled. She was looking at him very matter-of-factly, something slightly nonhuman in her completely honest gaze. He waited for the shadow to pass overheard, before rapidly turning to face her, frowning.

“We have to help them! We can’t just run!”

An eyebrow went up like he was the crazy one.

“Jarvan,” she deliberately looked up, “that is a _dragon_. We are not going up against that thing.”

“They’ll die.”

“So will we.” Her voice was flat.

A harsh Voice cut through the world as plumes of fire lit up the night sky, burning the shrubbery to black ash, the people who couldn’t escape joining it. At the screams, Jarvan felt his blood race and his face shifted to try and get a better look of what was going on.

She grabbed his face and directed it back towards her.

“No. That’s _suicide.”_

 _“I know.”_ He hissed it, soft and fierce.

They weren’t his soldiers. He wasn’t duty-bound to help them. They weren’t even civilians. No soldier in Skyrim had hands free of the blood of kin, even the ones closeted away in neutrality.

Screams filled the night sky, a bunch of inexperienced old men and young boys facing off against a nightmare come to life.

 “Go for help.”

She blinked. “Huh?”

“Follow your idea. Get to Whiterun for reinforcements. I’ll simply buy time and try to get them out.”

“JARVAN!” He managed to avoid her snatching grip as he vaulted out from cover, hand going to his quiver and taking in the nightmare before him.

The Watchtower, barely holding together beforehand, was veritably hazardous, large chunks of stone missing, black ash smeared across the stone, the surrounding landscape crisscrossed with still burning fires, the light casting the beast above into ghastly shadows. The soldiers were all trying to rally in the shelter of the tower, and the wounded howled as they were carried into the very tenuous safety of the tower’s bottom level. The grey monstrosity was circling, clearly having no intent to land on the fragile structure, and instead simply trying to get a flame accurate enough to burn straight through the platoon, if the patterns were indicative of intent.

Oh gods, he was genuinely mad, wasn’t he?

_Stay calm._

Everything had a weakness, a gap in their defence.

He followed it as it swooped through the skies, took a deep breath and observed.

It was _drastically_ less armored than the one in Helgen, with bony wings and leathery strips of skin keeping it afloat. It was flying slowly, angling for a clear shot, without fear of retaliation, hovering in one place as the soldiers still scrabbled to get their equipment together.

He withdrew multiple arrows and lined up the shots.

The beast shrieked as the draugr arrowheads slit clean through the fragile wings, quickly twisting back up into the sky to identify the insect that had dared strike at it. He took the opportunity to sprint towards the stunned soldiers.

“Aim for the wings!” He yelled, “Bring it down! We don’t stand a chance whilst it’s airborne!”

They remained startled, before a man, middle-aged and weathered face - perhaps a captain - quickly nodded.

“Archers, gather as much as your ammo as you can! The rest of you, protect them!”

“Sir!” They group unfroze, slightly too slow.

“It’s coming back around!” Jarvan yelled, eyeing the wheeling beast, “Focus on getting set up, I’ll try to distract it!” 

“What-?!”

He carefully lined up a shot, before sending it flying. An ordinary soldier might have missed the distance, but Jarvan had been taught warfare since he could first handle a stick. The dragon shrieked as the tiny missile struck clean through an eye and he yelled for its attention, diving to the side and rolling back to his feet, already aiming for its wings as it swung around, back to the tower, now one eye training on him.

“Now!” He called over the chaos and a volley of arrows struck the beast, peppering through the wings like quills and startling it fiercely, dropping from the sky to slam all four feet into the ground. The force was enough to send Jarvan to his knees, and he gasped, struggling back up, withdrawing an arrow and preparing to fire again.

“Don’t stop!” He roared, “Keep it down!”He didn’t know if they heard, but he began firing over and over, targeting the face, bony wings, the neck. Most were bouncing uselessly off grey scales, but a few, a very few, were beginning to stick, scales chipping off as more arrows targeted them.

This was actually working.

He reached back and his hand ghosted over only three more arrows.

His stomach dropped and his eyes flashed back.

And in that moment, the dragon arched back onto its back legs and leapt. There were screams as the beast veritably thrust itself into the air, wings simply flared out to hold as a giant ball of flame blossom within its mouth, close enough that it would envelop the lot of them. He swallowed, agape and frozen.

 **“** **_FUS!”_ **

The second Voice warped the air and the dragon cut itself off as an invisible force slammed into its side, sending it crashing through the air and tearing through the ground. Even Jarvan stumbled, the very tail ends catching him, still with enough force to knock him back. With an indignant roar, the dragon scrambled back up to its feet.

Panting before it was Shyvana.

Her eyes were slitted to their most narrow and her entire body was shuddering somewhat alarmingly, yet she still drew herself up and pulled her armed fists back into an aggressive stance. A glance his way, and a tilt of her head, and his mind jolted back into function, enabling him to roll back to his feet and scramble a safer distance away. And then he took a moment to examine the spectacle before him.

The dragon had coiled itself up, audibly rumbling, yet it was skittish, full facing towards the Dunmer fighter, restlessly padding, skittering back when she took a single step forward.

“What do you mean?”He jumped at her voice, but then blinked to find her scowling at the dragon. It sneered something and she took another step forward.

“I get that, but what does it _mean_?”

She was talking to the dragon.

She was _talking_ to the _dragon_.

Whatever it rumbled clearly pissed her off, and she advanced another step. “I said-!”

The dragon clearly decided she’d advanced enough. With all the warning of a startled animal, it lashed out at her and Jarvan felt his heart stop as meter long teeth snapped dangerously close to his friend.

She managed to dodge back, startled, and missed the spiked tail whipping into her side.

Jarvan sprinted over, alarmed, as he watched her body get flung almost like a rag doll into the nearby boulders, bouncing off with rattled limbs.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” He roared, lining up an arrow and firing.

It struck right on his previous shot still protruding from the dragon’s eye, the force cracking the arrow in half and wrenching it clean out, eyeball still attached. The dragon screamed, turning on him and roaring on its back legs, fleshy undersides on full display. This time it didn’t bother with fire, simply leaping into the air and diving him.

He didn’t have time to fire, at the other eye, at the undersides. He didn’t have time to dodge, roll, dive.

It was sort of surreal. Standing there with nothing but a couple of arrows, and an old bow.

He dropped his bow on the ground.

His breath was steady and nothing moved unwanted.

It lunged on him and he fell backwards, immense steaming jaws snapping inches from his head as he stabbed up sharply. The arrows were almost wrenched clean from his grip as the dragon’s momentum carried it over him, slightly less armoured underbelly skimming his nose, back being wrenched across the ground, a fine balance away from being crushed or sent flying.

Black blood burst out from the damage, hugging the arrows and splattering over his face. He gagged, spitting it out quickly, missing the beast’s outraged roar as it rolled away and its tail instead whipped.

Jarvan spat blood as a force akin to a studded mace slammed into his sides, lashing him from his spot and sending him skidding through the ground. The dragon turned on him, blood dripping freely beneath, eyes burning.

And behind it, Shyvana lunged.

Her howl gave the dragon’s own roar a run for ferociousness, her gauntlets slamming into the creature’s wing joints, burning with magic. The dragon immediately thrashed, trying to shake her, but she dug in, and let momentum carry her off.

And so firmly imbedded in her claws, one of the dragon’s wing yanked out to fly off with her.

Blood gushed from the severed limb as the dragon thrashed, blinded with rage and pain, just to turn its open maw towards the upstart girl, and fire gushed out.

Jarvan terrified scream was unheard under the roar of the blaze, as Shyvana took a ball of fire at point blank rage, orange tongues of heat engulfing her with enough ferocity that the regathering soldiers scattered anew.

Jarvan felt the world spin - though that might be a concussion - as he stumbled to his feet, got his bow and plunged it into the nearest scaled thing he could see, rage ricocheting from his lungs.

It just so happened to be the dragon’s much less defensible tail tip.

The dragon broke off to snap, whipping him away. Expecting it this time, Jarvan rolled to get back up, face seeking out his friend.

And he balked.

Standing before the dragon, eyes burning and body aglow with mana, was an entirely unharmed Shyvana, brushing off the last of the fires with a cool outrage.

How-

The dragon screeched in outrage, mouth opening - and she struck forward, foot slamming its lower jaw down as her right hand crushed its upper jaw, with a sick, dislocating crunch of bone. Her left hand extended forward, to the flames burning within the creature’s mouth.

The rune on the palm of her hand burnt.

A single pure bolt of white fire erupted from her fingertips, soaring into the belly of the beast. She kicked away, as the fire within ignited and the beast’s entire centre exploded in fire.

She was still too close, the blast knocking her backwards. Jarvan lunged, catching her shoulders and rolling to break their falls, as fire and guts rained down around the remnants of the tower.

Jarvan could hear his own breath in the ensuing silence, Shyvana wincing in his arms. He assumed a crouch, trying to position her in a slightly more supportive manner.

“Did that do it?” she groaned, hand moving to her head, “Is he dead?”

Jarvan blinked and surveyed the gory remnants.

“Yeah, it’s pretty dead.”

Shyvana slowly sat up, squinting around, and he shifted with her, still slightly expecting her body to be raw and heat blasted from the dragon breath.

Instead, she was almost fascinated, hand reaching forward to brush a bit of leg.

“It’s dead, huh . . . I never thought WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Jarvan leapt back, cradling Shyvana tightly as the dragon’s flesh dissolved under her fingertips. In a sudden rush, all at once, every piece began to fade into golden light, shifting and coagulating, streaming towards his companion and merging with her mana, the golden power aggressive and consuming, a veritable beacon in the night.

She gagged in his arms, but even as he attempted to shield her, the golden light pierced straight through, seemingly merging itself into her very being.

Until all that remained were the bones.

The pair stayed frozen, white knuckled grips clinging to each other.

“What was that?” Shyvana whispered, voice strained. Jarvan just shook his head helplessly.

“I . . . I don’t know

“It’s dead . . .”

Suddenly, they were aware of the tower soldiers still gathered around, most staring either at the dragon’s bones, or the woman who’d just killed it.

A single soldier said it.

“She’s . . . Dragonborn.”

“What?” Jarvan frowned immediately, half-noticing the tension that froze through his companion.

“You saw right?” the soldier yelled, “she absorbed its soul!”

“What are you talking about?” he tried to ask louder, but the group was growing in fever pitch, more of them slowly turning towards the pair.

“My grandfather used to talk about the Dragonborn in the old tales . . .”

“Just like Tiber Septim himself!”

Pressed up against him, Shyvana shivered.

“I’m not . . . I’m not the Dragonborn-”

“You used a Shout, I saw!” another joined the group slowly gathering around them, Shyvana shrinking away into Jarvan’s arms. “You knocked that monster right back!”

Jarvan swallowed, remembered the vicious word that ripped through the world and sent even a dragon stumbling back. Shyvana looked white.

“Warriors of Avorasa! Stop gawking like fowl and form up!”

The cold voice had all the soldiers at attention, most scrambling back to salute the newcomer. It was an incoming patrol of Whiterun soldiers, led by an immense Nord, who had abandoned all chest armour in favour of a kilt, bearing both a horned helmet and an immense jagged sword strapped to his back.

“Housecarl!” a younger soldier immediately burst out, “The dragon! That Elf-”

“I don’t want to hear another word!” He pulled up before them, swinging down in an unnecessarily forceful movement. “All of Whiterun is well aware of what transpired.” the man told them sharply, silencing the guards, “and I honestly don’t give a damn about Shouts or Dragonborns.”

He swung off his horse to crouch down beside the bones of the dragon, eyes narrow. “But I do give a damn about a dead dragon. And now that I’ve seen one, it means that we know we can kill them.”

“But . . . if the legends are true . . .” even the reinforcements behind him were looking cautious, the elder ones positively intense, and he snorted in derision.

“I’d recommend you trust your sword arm more than fairy tales. And I will trust someone who can kill a dragon over a legend any day.”

He looked over the pair of them. “You two responsible?”

Shyvana, naturally, managed to unfreeze herself just to snarl at his tone and Jarvan just squeezed her shoulders reassuringly.

“Who wants to know?” he replied calmly, positioning himself between the man and his companion.

Boiling eyes fixed on him, but the man held his head high.

“I am Tryndamere, Housecarl to the Warmother Ashe, Jarl of Whiterun. You will both be coming with me.”

Shyvana’s outrage rippled through her whole body and Jarvan turned his head to her ear.

“Relax - Whiterun was the plan anyway. Maybe we can get a free wagon out of this.”

“I don’t like this,” she snarled - fortunately under her breath, “I don’t like _any_ of this.”

Her eyes slid over the dragon skeleton and Jarvan subtly steered her away.“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

“What are you both waiting for?!” the man demanded, already mounted and turning for the Hold in the distance, “This is no time for inaction!”

A couple of soldiers staying to reinforce the ruined tower offered out their horses, but as Jarvan climbed up, he noticed his companion’s hesitance with moving for her own, and instead held out a hand. She stared at it, before clenching firmly and swinging up behind him, arms secure around his waist.

“We ride at full pace - our Warmother should not be kept waiting!”

The Housecarl tore off, the mounted party all hastening up to full speed to try and keep up with him.

“Pretty gung-ho, isn’t he?” Shyvana’s voice sniffed in his ear and he chuckled slightly. Mounted as they were, the party arrived at the well-lit walls of the Hold Capitol in no time at all, townsfolk splitting apart to let them through. Horses were left at the stable outside the main gates and then there were escorted in.

Surrounded by guards with a Housecarl leading them, Jarvan resisted the crawling sensation of being marched in as a prisoner. At his side, Shyvana’s expression was dark enough that any curious townsfolk sending her a glance immediately inhaled sharply and looked away.

When Jarvan reached out for her fingers, she gripped them back tightly.

“Dragonsreach sits atop Whiterun,” the Housecarl was saying, leading them through a market centre and up an immense flight of carved steps, “you’ll find the Warmother inside-”

An immense flare of magickan energy suddenly surged over the entirety of the Hold and the ground violently shuddered.

Screams filled the day as countless individuals were forced to their knees, Jarvan stumbling sharply, as voices ricocheted through the world like thunder.

“ **DOH VAH KIIN!!** ”

Shyvana, the only one who had kept her footing, looked sick. Jarvan just exhaled, hand on the ground.

“What . . . what was that?” he asked shakily. The Housecarl had a hand against the immense sword, eyes cool and directed to a silhouette looming in the distance.

It wasn’t him who answered.

“The Targonians, atop High Hrothgar,” the voice rang out over the still slightly spooked crowd and Jarvan swung his head around.

Stand before the opened doors of Dragonsreach was the Warmother herself.

The woman heralded as the reincarnation of Avarosa had the same unnatural white hair as her fellow Warmother, but whereas Sejuani’s had been hacked and sheared to fit under armour, hers was cleanly groomed, coasting around her shoulders, with a single braid holding her bangs off her face, True Ice eyes focused on the immense peak rising southeast of Whiterun.

She was beautiful, but with a surreal unnatural beauty that reminded Jarvan far more of an ice sculpture than a living person.

She let her gaze drift once more over the immense peak, before turning with a sharp whistle. From the gates above a hawk, with the same ice blue eyes as she, swooped down to perch on her shoulder, whilst the doors to Dragonsreach swung open.

None of the soldiers moved as the pair got to their feet, obeying the unspoken order to follow.

 

* * *

 

Dragonsreach’s audience room boasted an immense hall, doors peeling off to the sides, and stairs leading up to the matriarch’s private halls. An immense carved throne rested upon a dais, a white furred navy cloak settled around it as if the Warmother had simply forgotten to refasten it as she left. Hanging above the throne, in pride of place, was a bow made from pure True Ice.

Despite the immense, laden tables filling the hall, it was veritable empty, only a few individuals looking up from their spots to observe the two foreigners. 

The Warmother settled herself on her immense throne, a structure that might have made her seem small if she didn’t recline in it so habitually, chin resting on her fist. Her hawk let out a sharp cry from her shoulder, wheeling around to perch atop the throne’s back. Jarvan jolted at footsteps, but it was only the Housecarl, making his way to kneel reverently at his Lady’s side.

One of the few warriors still in the hall at the hour, a well-build Nordic woman, sniffed.

“Took you long enough, Tryndamere. Lady Ashe sent you-”

“Peace, Hildhur,” the Warmother held up a hand, “right now we have slightly more important matters to discuss. First, what exactly happened at the Watchtower?”

Jarvan shot his companion a glance, noted the rather murderous look on her face, and decided to handle the talking.

“A dragon attacked. Although the Watchtower was significantly damaged, we managed to ground the beast with arrows and then finish it off.”

“Just like that, huh?” She responded, eyebrow arched, “Anything else?”

“Well, my friend absorbed some sort of power when it died. The soldiers mentioned something about the Dragonborn but . . .”

“I saw it with my own eyes, Ashe,” Tryndamere rumbled, “the beast dissolved into golden light, right into the Elf.”

“So the Targonians really were calling for you,” her fists ever so slightly tightened, “that summons that echoed over Whiterun was sent from High Hrothgar, a fortress that lies at the peak of the highest mountain in Skyrim.”  
“And who are the Targonians?” He asked warily. Her eyes glittered.

“Masters of the Voice. Men and Woman said to have made deals with the heavens themselves to watch over Skyrim.”

“Hm, if they were only meant to watch, then maybe they shouldn’t have taught the Winter’s Wrath how to start a war.” Hildhur grumbled, face full of scowls.

Ashe shot her a weary look, before turning back, tilting her head to peer at the still silent, and decidedly pissed off, Shyvana.

“If you’re truly the Dragonborn, then you have an inborn ability to understand Thu’um - in other words, the Shouts. Should you go there, they’ll be able to teach you how to control your gift.”

“Is it that urgent?” He asked, slightly unease and Ashe exhaled.

“I . . _No_ , there is no threat of the power.” Her hands tightened and she looked up, eyes burning, “But the legends say Shouts are the most effective means of destroying the dragons when they all return. Hence why the Dragonborn, the one destined to slay the dragons, is naturally gifted in them.”She took a steadying breath, “I do not know if either of you care. I do not know if either of you are even from Skyrim. But this war is on the verge of destroying us - the last thing the people here need are countless monsters from oblivion flying unopposed.”

There was a moment of silence, and Jarvan inspected the burning intensity of her gaze, heat amidst the ice sculpture, before she settled back, freezing over once more.

“You have, however, saved my city, and I will not forget that. Should you require anything, Whiterun offers you both its service and its aid.”

“You’re putting too much faith in them!” Hildhur protested, “Two people kill a dragon. That doesn’t mean they’re the Dragonborn, it means two people figured out a way to kill dragons!”

“I’ll agree to that.” Tryndamere rumbled, “the reality is more important than the legend.”“But if she is the Dragonborn-”

“They’re right.” 

The audience hall fell silent as Shyvana’s voice cut through it, vicious and angry.

“I’m not the Dragonborn. Sorry for disappointing.”

She turned and stalked off, pissed enough that she didn’t even bother to check where she was going.

The individuals still there all remained perplexed.

“Is . . . is she allowed to do that?” Tryndamere rumbled, bemused and Ashe just pressed a hand to her head.

“I don’t know. Mother might have struck her on principal but . . .”

“I’ll go after her,” Jarvan offered, unflinching as they all turned to him “I don’t know why she did that.”Ashe blinked, leaning forward.

“How long have you been traveling with her?”

“Less than a week. Technically.”

They all visibly started, even the stern steward drawing back.

“You and that Dark lass killed a dragon together, after only a week?” She shook her head, “Wonders are abound today, aren’t they?”

“What did you say your name was again?” Ashe suddenly spoke deliberately, and Jarvan wondered if she was trying to freeze him on the spot with her gaze alone.

“Jay,” he hoped there wasn’t any hesitation, “and she’s Shyv. I’ll try not to take long.”

He darted off into the side door Shyvana had headed towards, before the Warmother decided to try and freeze him with her bow instead.

He found her, curled up in a small ante chamber for more private meals, back to the wall, head in her knees and shudders rippling through her shoulders.

Softly, he sat down beside her.

“Want to talk?”

She shook her head, still keeping it down and he just scooted closer, dropping an arm over her shoulder and letting her just slump into him.

“Mind if I talk?”

She shook her head again. He exhaled slowly, staring at the overly supplied table in front of them, slowly recategorising his thoughts.

“Out there, they called you the Dragonborn. The soldiers, the civilians, even the Warmother. But you say they’re wrong.”

She nodded, still silent.

He swallowed.

“And you know that?”

“. . . I’m not the Dragonborn,” her voice was muffled against his furs, “I’m not . . . I can’t be.”'

“Why?”

She let out a sharp sound that couldn’t decide whether it was a laugh or a scoff.

“Because of all the bullshit I’ve put up in my life, that’s the one thing I’m drawing line at.”

Jarvan had no god damn clue what she was on about, but she was talking again, and the fire had returned to her eyes. He moved his arms to rest on the crown of her head.

“Then let’s talk about what else we know. When you killed the dragon-“

“We killed the dragon.”

“When _we_ killed the dragon, but _you_ landed the last blow, you absorbed some sort of power from it. And immediately afterwards, _right_ as we reached Dragonsreach, some ancient order demands that the Dragonborn present themself. And absorbing power from dragons is a power tied to the Dragonborn.”

She was sending him a very glowering look by this stage so he held up both hands appealingly.“It might not be the Dragonborn, but it is _something_. And apparently, these Targonians have the answers. Something is going on here - two dragons don’t just appear. And the more answers we get the better.”She cooled her expression and he frowned as she slightly drew back, her knees stretching as her head tapped against the wall.

“People died in that tower.” She murmured, voice strained, “If there are more dragons coming, then more people will die.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. They probably will.”

She gave the slightest of snarls, canines sticking out from her lips, “There’s only one. There’s only _ever_ been one.”

It _burnt_ him to not push for more answers, but the words had been breathed, musings not communication, and he swallowed down his curiosity.

“You heard the Warmother - there’s going to be plenty more coming.”

She let out an aggravated hiss, dragging sharp nails against her bared legs, “It’s _not fair_.”

“. . . Yeah.”

“So maybe you’re not the Dragonborn,” he held out a hand, “but if these Targonians can teach you how to use more Shouts, then we can still save people. You don’t need to be some chosen hero to want to do that.”

“Argh!” she buried her face in her hands and then peeked out between long fingers, “. . . You want me to say ‘yes’ to this, don’t you?”

The side of his lips quirked up and she scowled, “Don’t get smug with your gods damned Hero complex . . . . _ugh fine._ ”

He managed to restrain the elation, climbing back to his feet, “Truly? I feel like this is all could become something pretty major.”

She stared up at him, thoroughly moody. “Every dragon but her. If she returns, we head straight for the next closest country.”

He felt his lips twitch up.

“Deal.”

Her face contorted, surprisingly expressive for someone so typically angry, before she reached up and accepted the hand, keeping it there as he led her back towards the audience hall. 

Someone else had arrived first.

“You said they were here, yes? And yet I see no flowing mead to give a hearty welcome!”

“There are more important things present here-” the Warmother was speaking, vaguely flustered. The boisterous, baritone voice cut through, good naturedly.

“Ah yes, there is always something more important. Yet I say there is nothing more important than cherishing the chances we have before us.”

“Ashe,” Jarvan jumped to find the Housecarl looking at them, “they’ve come back.”

She jolted spinning around, before sighing, hand going to her forehead.

“Sorry about this, really, I asked him-”

“Ah, you must be our dragonslayers!” Before Jarvan had time to prepared himself, he found his entire hand swept up by an immense Nord, his entire body rippling with nothing but muscles, a display of such overwhelming attractive masculinity that Jarvan genuinely froze, trying not to gape. The only thing out of place was a veritably dancing moustache and his two bright eyes, oddly devoid of the usual True Ice blue.

“H-how do you do?” He managed to get out and the man veritably beamed.

“Fantastic, of course! Ah, so many years since the last dragons and stories are already being made! Champions have always arisen when threats have presented themselves!”

“Huh.” Shyvana got out, equally agape, and he struggled not to laugh at the immediate regret on her face, as the immense man turned to her.

She was not that much shorter than Jarvan, and Jarvan himself was uniquely tall for an Imperial, but this overenthusiastic body builder positively dwarfed her.

“And the Shout-wielder herself! A great New Beginning, yes? Made all the better if we are amongst friends!”

Slightly guiltily, Jarvan dodged around the man and his positivity-overwhelmed companion, instead moving over to the Warmother.

He pointed slightly.

“Um . . . care to introduce us?”

“That would be Braum,” she massaged her temple, “he’s a traveller through Skyrim, though he often comes back to Whiterun - supposedly our inn here is the rowdiest but that might just be because of who runs it. He knows more about the legends of our ancestors than probably our ancestors themselves.”

“Has he come because of the dragon?” He caught on and she nodded.

“He honestly means well. I promise.”

“Before I forget!” Without even the chance to dodge, Jarvan found an immense hand on his shoulder, the cheery man beaming down at him. “You, the Imperial Archer!” 

“Yes?” His voice actually _squeaked_. He was _eighteen_. 

“Those arrows of yours supposedly cut right through the beasts belly! Were they Iceborn-made per chance?”

“I . . . Maybe?” He sent his companion, who was still slightly bedazzled from her encounter, a glance for help, “We found them in a draugr barrow, so it seems likely.”

“And this barrow, was it just south of here? In the mountain range?”

“Braum, really, not now-” Ashe let out an exasperated sigh, but she cut herself off as Jarvan nodded.

“Yes, it was Bleak Falls Barrow,” they all stared at him in various states of shock and he tried to stay professional, “is that significant?”

“And you were in the barrow?” This time it was the Housecarl, “As in the _actual_ barrow?”

“You must have, if that’s where you got the arrows . . .” Ashe mused beside him.

“Then you must have it, yes?!” Braum was beaming at 100% by this point and Jarvan resisted squinting, “The treasure of the barrow! Surely you retrieved it!”

It was too late for someone to be this overwhelmingly enthusiastic.

“The treasure of the barrow?” Jarvan thought for a moment, subtly stepping out from the man’s unnecessarily well-muscled arms, thinking. And then he jolted, spinning.

“Wait, Shyv, what about the stone?”

She stared at him, before blinking, “Oh, I completely forgot about that.”

She opened up her satchel and reached in tentatively, before starting. “It’s . . . completely cool now?”

“But of course, it is, Shout-wielder!” Braum good naturally slammed her back and Jarvan winced at the wide eyed look she fixated forwards with, her entire body seizing up. “That’s a Dragonstone! With no more Dragon, no more excitement!”

“A Dragonstone?” She echoed, giving the thing in her hands a second, much more interested look. Braum nodded eagerly.

“I’ve been meaning to get it myself, but I kept getting waylaid by the fine establishments in Whiterun. It would be deeply appreciated if I could have it!”

“Gladly,” she dumped it in his hands, “it was freaking me out.”

Surprisingly Braum just nodded, as serious an expression as his face could arrange.

“But of course. Dragonstone was written by the Dragons themselves - any mortal would find it uncomfortable to hold - especially around an actual dragon!’

In saying that, he took it from her without any real discomfort.

And then he turned his gaze to the very back corner of the halls. 

“I’ll send you what I learn. Good for everyone, is it not?”

Jarvan almost startled at the figure abruptly leaving, black hair coasting around her hips clad in fuchsia leather, already well out by the door before any of them had properly seen her face, feet gliding without a sound on the wood.

Braum turned to them. “I leave now. Next time you are in Whiterun, find me and we drink until the sun rises!”

He clapped them both on the back and, even prepared, Jarvan genuinely wondered if the dragon’s tail had been that powerful, before the man nodded to the Warmother and vanished off into a side room.

The Warmother just slumped back into her throne, hand to her head, “Well, he’s always a whirlwind, isn’t he?”

“Well, at least we were able to help him.”

“And got him out of our hair,” Tryndamere reclined against the back wall, “he’s been pestering us to send men into the barrows for weeks now. Says it’s not any fun if he goes in alone.”

“Braum is a wealth of information,” Ashe responded, voice slightly chiding, “we are honored that he comes to us instead of my sisters.”

The last word got a few disdainful snorts around the hall and she frowned, turning back to the pair.

“Sorry about the chaos and thank you for being willing to give that up. Have you . . . come to an accord?”

“Yes,” Jarvan turned to Shyvana carefully, “we will go up to High Hrothgar to meet with the Targonians.”

She let out a small sigh, nodding slightly and Ashe sat back, lips pressed together, a pleased flush to her face.

Tryndamere just arched an eyebrow, “Not like that you’re not.” He gave them both once overs, “A Nord might be able to resist the cold, but you two will freeze before you’re a quarter way up.”

“Do you have any suggestions then?” the Warmother glanced over, her Housecarl nodding.

“The bones of the dragon have been delivered to Jorrvaskr - the Companions should be more than capable of using them to upgrade your armour and weaponry.”

Jarvan just shrugged, “We’d love to, but we don’t have anywhere near enough money. Mostly what we have comes from hunting and odd work.”

“We can deal with the cold,” Shyvana inputted, a bit of the snark back in her tone and Jarvan resisted the urge to just stare at her in amazement.

Ashe, meanwhile, was shaking her head, “Money is nothing compared to a summons from the Targonians. I will contact Nidalee personally.” She held out her hand for her hawk to rest upon, murmuring softly to it, before sending it off wheeling out through one of the hall’s windows.

“Nidalee leads the Companions,” Tryndamere jumped in for explanation, “you’ll find her and her group in the Wind District. Knowing their lot, they’ll still be partying in their Mead Hall.”

“The Companions have some of the best artisans in Skyrim - we’ll cover the costs.” Ashe decided and Jarvan blanched.

“That would be-”

“Little compared to saving an entire city from a dragon,” she spoke over him, no room for argument. “I am Nord, a holder of the blood of the Iceborn, and I do not take debts lightly. You have helped my city when you had no cause to, and I will repay it in full. Should you return to Whiterun, do not hesitate to ask me for any favors.”

Jarvan blinked before nodding. “In that case, we shall-”

“AH, before you leave!” they all jumped as Braum reappeared, bushy moustache twitching from his smiling, “Shout-Wielder! Logically you know the tongue of the dragons if you are such!”

“I-”

“Excellent!” Before either of them could react, he had whisked her away into his side room and Jarvan was left, waving, bemused, as his companion was dragged away.

Ashe let out a small laugh, before sobering up, turning to him. 

“If possible, lastly that it is just you, there is something I would like to bring up.”

He felt the slight crawl of dread, but simply bowed his head.

She stared at him intently.

“Many survivors of Helgen came through Whiterun. As neutral land, it allowed them to recover before splitting back into their respective territories. And all of them agree that amongst those destined for execution was the Imperial Crown Prince.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t react and simply nodded. “I’ve heard that too.”

She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, sitting back and folding her arms, “I’ve also heard that he was killed when he was shot by a Thalmor, only for the burning house he was sheltering under to collapse as well.”

“A shame.”

Now they were properly narrow. “So I was wondering if you, _Jay_ , knew why both the Frostguard and Winter’s Claw have sent out wanted missives demanding he be brought to their hold capitols on sight. Not to mention there is supposedly a whole Vanguard of Imperial soldiers traversing the country in search of a corpse. I can only imagine the outrage in Cyrodiil.”

“It is truly-”

“Don’t play dumb.” She cut over sharply and he stared at her, slightly darker and expression a bit more severe.

Tryndamere focused on him, hand resting on his sword’s hilt.

He could feel his heart hammering, as well as the stirrings of anger within.

His foolish anger had gotten him here.

He blinked, before exhaling slightly, and turning to the doorway his companion had vanished off into, “I owe her.”  
They both paused, and Jarvan turned back to them.“I almost certainly would have died in Helgen, and then later on from my wounds, and then many times in the Barrow. I have sworn I’ll pay her back, and if that means climbing High Hrothgar, so be it.”

“The world believes Jarvan Lightshield IV to be dead,” Ashe pointed out, “you would let them continue to believe that.”

“I do not . . . could not explain what brought me to Skyrim,” even now, he could feel his memories pushing against his barriers, fighting to lash out, “but there is no place for me in Cyrodiil. It would be better if the Crown Prince was dead.”

“You would fight the apocalypse itself instead of returning home?” Tryndamere let out a disbelieving snort. “I don’t know if you’ve got guts, or a death wish.”

Honestly, he didn’t either.

“I meant what I said - I will not spit on your help by giving away your location,” she arched an eyebrow, “but maybe consider how much you are willing to let your country go to war over this.”

He let out a small half-smile, “They won’t over me.”

“You’d be surprised.” She sighed, “As long as you’re aware, I will keep my word. In the meantime, you might want to buy your friend a drink - one-on-one exposure with Braum tends to result in that. I’ll arrange a wagon to  High Hrothgar tomorrow morning.”

On cue, the door swung open and Shyvana carefully walked out, eyes wide, hair a bit more wild than usual and fingers clawing the wall. He felt the swell of affection, heading over to offer an arm.

“I’ll take it that went well.”

“I don’t want to talk to another person for a year.” She instead responded, reaching out to cling to him with veritable claws.

He gave a final bow to the Warmother and her Housecarl, before guiding Shyvana out of Dragonsreach.

 

Jorrvaskr sat just beneath Dragonsreach, an immense mead hall that seemed to have a roof entirely made from the salvaged hull of a boat, claiming the highest point in the Eastern Wind District. Stone steps carved the way up to the building in its full glory, and smaller carved steps wound up around, leading to various furnaces and anvils. Shyvana was still a bit frazzled beside him, so he instead took her hand and began leading them up. Various citizens, who certainly had no legitimate business being up this late, tracking back and forth between the residences and the historic building in slow circles, eyes locked on the Dunmer at his side. Her eyes burnt ahead, and he subtly shifted closer to her, warning glares at anyone who looked too long.

Her ashen fist only lightly knocked on the old wooden doors, but the sound seemed to resonate within the building.

And then they swung open, the figure behind them cheerful.

She was tall, and Jarvan had a moment of confusion, unable to pick wether the long slim figure was of the mer, or the rounded ears and dark eyes were of man. An array of furs decorated her chest, wrists and ankles, long brown hair swept into a ponytail, and an immense spear carried on her back. A single purple streak ran through her hair, noticeable as she glanced between the two of them eagerly.

Jarvan arched an eyebrow, “Nidalee?”

She turned, gave him a right sour look, before turning and giving Shyvana a considerably brighter one.

And then, in a flash, she changed.

Shyvana had the grace to gape as the lean fighter seemed to flip her skin into a very familiar looking Dunmer, before launching herself and rubbing her cheek affectionately over Shyvana’s identical one, red eyes wide and utterly flummoxed.

“I like your Sho’ma much better, Dragon Lady!” the shapeshifter crowed and Shyvana went rigid.

A glove gripped the back of the shapeshifter’s scruff and she was yanked right off, Jarvan catching his friend as the force of the shapeshifter’s grip managed to drag her off-balance.

A figure identical to the shapeshifter’s original shape was standing before them, expression considerably more exasperated and easily holding up the shapeshifter by her scruff.

“Stop greeting guests like that,” she growled wryly and the shapeshifter giggled, the chipper expression looking very out of place amongst Shyvana’s austere features. Just like before, her skin rippled, as if unfolding itself, but this time, Shyvana’s shape was replaced by a slight Argonian woman, though admittedly, Jarvan had never met an Argonian with such a rainbow hued array of scales, long purple feelers curling out from her head. The woman shook her head and dropped the Argonian, who immediately scurried away, grinning, before turning to them.

“I hope she wasn’t too much of a bother. She’s harmless, I swear.”

“If you say so,” Shyvana grumbled, rubbing her cheek and Jarvan dragged fingers through his hair.

“Are _you_ Nidalee then?”

“Yeah, Ashe said you’d be coming,” she held the door open for the pair to walk into the hall, long tables set up, and under the roar of an immense fireplace, warriors of all races and nationalities ambled, eating and drinking and spectating a drunken brawl between two of the Companions. 

Holding pride of place was a coiling wooden statue, the only distinct traits being two recognizable masks, one oblong and forlorn, the other triangular and alert, crowning the head(s?).

He managed to not back away, but he still missed a step, stiffening.

He could recognise a Daedric Prince when he saw one because the Oblivion Crisis had ensured that no Imperial could ever forget, but he wasn’t intrinsically familiar with them all to recognise this one on sight. It was still as creepy as hearing Shyvana curse so casually in their tongue. 

“That’s Hircine,” Shyvana informed him, “The Lamb and the Wolf, or the Eternal Hunters.”“Most members of the Companions swear by the Hunters in some form or another,” Nidalee inputted, holding up hand. Decorating it was an elaborate silver ring, two dancing shapes chasing each other around her finger.

“The Ring of Hircine, for instance, is always worn by the leader of the Companions.”

“What does it do?” Shyvana actually moved _closer_ to the thing, inspecting it from a better angle and Nidalee just smiled with oddly fanged teeth.

“It has the odd perk or too. But you are here for armour, not jewellery. Ah, there he is. Warwick!”

Near the end of the long tables, a Redguard with the bushiest beard Jarvan had ever laid his eyes on stood up, still drinking from a tankard, one heat strained eye open and watching.

He held out a hand which Jarvan obliged, handing over their thin armor and his bow, Shyvana a bit more hesitant with her newly discovered gauntlets, before he let out a deep grumble, heading off, up the stairs to an outdoor courtyard no doubt housing the bellows. 

“In the meantime, please feel free to relax. The food’s free to anyone who comes through. We have free rooms for guests downstairs and Rengar’s normally in the fight rings nearby, if you feel so inclined. Also,” with crisp accuracy, she reached out, snatching a random Breton’s ear, who let out a squeak of surprise, “watch out for this one.”

The Breton unfolded into the shapeshifting Argonian with a laugh.

“Neeko can’t fool Nidalee, it seems!”

Jarvan left the two arguing, as he instead heeded the Shield-sister’s directions, found a visitor room and passed out.

 

He was woken (far, far, far too early) by the sound of furious cries and the clash of metal, the morning sun trickling in from minute windows. Swinging his legs off, he groaned loudly at the muscle pain.

Turns out a day spent dungeon diving, dragon fighting, and horse riding could really fuck up a back.

He allowed himself a few moments to half-doze against the wall, dragging himself out to the central space beneath Jorrvaskr’s main hall.

His brain was by no means alert, so it took him a while to recognise Shyvana sparring in the dirt arena, the muscle-bound Khajit going toe-to-toe with nothing button immense clawed weapon, steel ringing against her gauntlets.

Blinking himself awake, he took a mental step back, whistling under his breath. Instead of the basic sharp points, the edges of her gauntlets now bared the jaw bone of a dragon, scales decorating her armoured plate and skirt. Long carved bones lining the edges of the gauntlets, and, even blunted, they sparked against the Khajit’s claws.

“If you want to get changed, here’s your set!”

He glanced over as Warwick approached, before blinking the beaming smile directed his way.

“Err… Not Warwick?”

Warwick’s face immediately shifted to surprise, before sad.

“Warwick was meant deliver them, but he said Neeko should do it instead. Neeko’s skills seem to be getting worse.”

The Argonian shifted back to her form with a pout and he took the carefully folded bundle with a smile, almost reverently running his fingers over the dragon scales lining his breastplate. On top of it all, the dragon’s teeth had been filed down into aggressive looking spikes to decorate his pauldrons and helm.  Combined with the spiralling horns on Shyvana’s own helm, it all made for quite an intimidating set.

“Warwick’s from Hammerfell - he knows how to tinker the most unbelievable nonsense into gear.” Nidalee ambled down the stairs, sending again towards the Argonian, “Neeko? Wanna grab breakfast?”

“Neeko is beginning to feel like an errand girl . . .”

She nevertheless brightened at the head pat she received, bouncing up the stairs, Nidalee coming to watch the sparring pair at Jarvan’s side.

Once again, he gave her as subtle a once-over as he could. 

“Umm . . . I don’t wish to be rude, but I was wondering. Are you-?”

“I’m from the jungles that form the border of Morrowind and the Black Marsh,” Nidalee responded, tone wry, “Neeko too. However, my mother was a Bosmer, and my father a Breton. Does that answer it?”

Jarvan blinked, nodding his head slightly, “Once again, forgive my rudeness. . . does that happen often? A Man and an Elf?”

“More than you’d think,” she stretched her arms out above her head, “maybe less so for Dunmer and Altmer, but many Bosmer fled the Aldmeri Invasion. Bosmer are good at trade, and eager to do so - it’s no surprise it has been easier for them to integrate through the countries of Man much better than others.”

“And how did you get up in the border jungles?” He asked.

She snickered.

“Oh, you know Bretons - would sell their own limbs if it meant something new was invented as result. Some probably have. My father went to the jungles to see if there were any magicka-tech materials, and my mother went with him to keep the jungle from eating him alive. I was born there, and met Neeko, and the two of us came up to Skyrim to join the Companions.”

“End of story, huh?”

She grinned at him, sitting back, “So what about you both, huh? What brings a Dunmer and Imperial together, of all people?”

“How does a dragon sound?”

Her eyes immediately lit up. “I _heard_. Is it true? Are dragons really abound in Skyrim?”

“I mean, your smith spent the night fusing the bones of one into armour, so I would assume so.”

“ _That’s_ what you gave him?” She grinned, “That would be a fine hunt.”

“Not quite sure I’d recommend if,” he warned, “It was slightly too much like hell for me.”

“Hey, it’s fine, isn’t it?” She shrugged, “As long as the Dark Dragon isn’t here, we’re fine.”Jarvan frowned slightly, “Dark Dragon?”

She tilted her head, “You know, the _big_ one. The World-Eater. The Harbinger of the Apocalypse itself et cetera et cetera. It’s sort of a big deal in Nordic Mythology.”

“I’ve never heard about it.” He frowned slightly and she laughed, “Well yeah, you’re an Imperial under fifty. How much have you actually left your city?”

That stung slightly more than he should have let, simply shrugging and she nodded.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I understand. Concordat and Thalmors and all that.”

She sent him a sly wink, but any response he could come up with was interrupted by the Khajit’s heavy exhale, and both promptly collapsed in the ditrt.

His immediate alarm almost overpowered his shock as two Neekos appeared behind them.

 

It was on a full stomach and actually considered hygiene that they left the Companions. Their new gear might have been abnormal, but Whiterun _was_ the commercial hub of Skyrim and with the start of the day had heralded a steady stream of merchants, mercenaries and soldiers alike passing through, horned helms of all shapes and sizes, market vendors already shouting out ‘authentic dragon tooth daggers’ to eager buyers. Shyvana, who had followed her fight with a brisk bath, was in a veritably shining mood as they wound their way through the morning crowds, even the few stares of the city residents, not pulling her back down into her usual dark airs. Jarvan could feel his own mood warble upwards, fixed on the looming peak in the distance.

Within a week, they would be climbing all the way to the top.

Guards monitored those entering and exiting the main gates, so they simply lined up with the rest, the heavy gates swinging shut behind them.

As promised, their Orsimer drive waved them over with a friendly call, as they picked their way down the paths in front of the city gates. 

“It takes about four days to travel to Ivarstead. From there, you’ll find the stairs leading up to High Hrothgar.”

A quick passing of coin and then their driver was tethering the horses to the wagon, Jarvan stepping up into the back with considerably greater ease than his last experience.

Behind him, Shyvana hovered slightly, and underneath her good mood, something old and frightened lurked, crowding her fire-eyes.

Jarvan paused, turned and then extended a hand with a reassuring smile.

“Hey, we’ll meet these Targonians, find out how to kill these dragons, bring that information back to Whiterun, maybe kill a couple of dragons, and then we’re off.”

She took his hand and stepped up into the carriage, expression disbelieving, “You make it sound so easy.”

“Don’t worry,” they pressed up together, as the driver cracked his whip and their cart pulled away from Whiterun, “how much more complicated can it get?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is out! On time!  
> Jarvan will regret that line!
> 
> Chaton, last chapter: careful, make sure to keep it as true to character  
> Chaton, this chapter:ALL OF THE CHARACTERS
> 
> Also, my space button broke. Writing is considerably harder when you have to edit in all your spaces afterwards.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented/left kudos ^#o#^
> 
> Mephala - Vilemaw  
> Hircine - Kindred


	4. It Gets Complicated

Shyvana was conflicted. 

Deeply, uncharacteristically conflicted.

The snow had been coming down for a couple days now, increasing the closer they drew towards the base of High Hrothgar, a thin white sheet coating everything. The cart lacked a roof, so they’d instead wrapped themselves as thickly as they could in the new cloaks, laced with heat-treated enchantments. Beside her, Jarvan was snoozing, head rolled back in a way that was definitely going to hurt when he woke up, snoring lightly.

And Shyvana was struggling against the temptation to seize the moment and make a run.

She had _agreed_ , she had _accepted_ , she had _given her word_ -

-that she would fight a species hell bent on murdering her.

She slumped slightly lower, her legs able to touch the other side of the cart, a discontented rumble in the back of her throat.

Gods below, why did she have to get involved in this? All she’d been out to do was get a lift into the Black Marsh, and chanced Skyrim would have better prices than Cyrodiil. Now she was stuck here, with apparently more than one demonic lizard of flying death after her, under her own promise that she’d stay.

_Whyyyy was she so stupid?_

She could just run. Jump cart, find maybe a caravan heading west, or south, or east, or anywhere that would take her out of this frozen, dragon-ridden country.

Beside her, Jarvan twitched in his sleep, restless, and she ran fingers through his hair, waiting for his forehead to de-crease itself. With a small mumble, he tilted, and his head slumped against her shoulder, settled once more.

She let out a small soft sound of discontent.

Why was this so _complicated_?

Maybe it wasn’t complicated, a small, non-sensical part of her argued. Maybe she really could learn how to defeat the dragons, get rid of the majority and then fuck off before Yvva figured out where she was again.

 _“I-Impossible! I thought She was lying! I refuse to believe that a_ half-breed  _is Dovahkiin!”_

That dragon had been a real ass, shrieking his own praises over the battlefield, even when the soldiers had grounded him. Then when she’d tried to push for more information, he had completely clammed up, only harping on about The Great Mirmulnir and her Destiny and what have you. 

Also, his tail had hurt more than she expected it too, and she might have slipped off the temperamental deep end seeing Jarvan receive the full force of one.

She had definitely slipped off the temperamental deep end.

Once again, her head slumped back and she let out a deep, conflicted _groan_.

When did things get so confusing?

Normally, the pattern was simple. Nothing, Yvva shows up, she runs the fuck away, Yvva stops chasing her, back to nothing. Why was it all weird _this_ time?

“Err . . . Miss Dragonborn,” she felt her forehead twitch at the word, but looked up anyway, spying the driver, smiling under extreme duress, “I don’t mean to intrude, but your growling is scaring my horses.”

She blinked, glancing over. Sure enough, the stallions pulling the cart were flicking their heads, straining on their tethers and showing the whites of their eyes. 

“. . . Sorry, I guess.”

Why were horses always so skittish? Most animals just accepted she was part dragon and rightfully left her the fuck alone, but horses in particularly had some sort of instinct to kick her on sight. She been morbidly impressed that Jarvan had kept his under control enough for her to ride behind without too much of a fuss.

She went to release another grumble, remembered what the driver had quite literally just told her, and instead straightened up, with her lips pulled down, before hurriedly catching Jarvan as he almost slipped off.

“Hey, where are we?” She asked instead, gazing around, and the man let out a small discontent sigh.

“Well, what with Helgen being gone, I’m skirting a bit further east to reach Ivarstead. Crossing into Riften means avoiding Winter’s Claw soldiers, so it’s taking a bit longer to reach Ivarstead.”

She sighed, sat back and idly watched the trees passing by. 

She was just drifting into a doze herself when Jarvan woke up without warning, eyes flinging open and jolting upright, breathing heavy and panicked as he glanced around, disorientated.

She was mildly frozen, before she recollected herself. 

“All good?”

He stared at her, not quite seeing her, before he frowned and exhaled forcefully, “. . . Shyvana?”

“That’s me.”

Deep shadows had settled under his eyes, and they had certainly not been there before.

Absently, her mind trailed to the scars cracking across his shoulders, arms and back.

“. . . Do you need anything?”

He took a few breaths, before wincing, “Your hand?”

She let out a noncombatant hum, wrapping ash hands around pale ones, and managing to tone down a reaction as he immediately gripped tight, tremors running through his hands to hers.

She let him breathe for a few minutes, before her head tilted, “You okay?”

He exhaled heavily and replied with a wane smile, “Y-yes. Thank you.”

“Nightmares, boy?” The driver was looking back, a concerned frown on his face and Jarvan’s face twitched slightly.

“. . . I am of age.”

The driver barked, revealing his short tusks, “I’ve got a kid your age and I’m just glad he’s yet to sign up for this whole mess. Just because you _can_ go to war, doesn’t mean it was right if it’s keeping you up.”

Conflict warred on Jarvan’s face and Shyvana just sighed, sitting back, and absently brushing off the layer of snow that had settled in the interim.

“How long until Ivarstead?”

“I’m reckoning ‘bout less than a day or so.”

Jarvan turned an exasperated look her way. Before he could voice his exasperation, however, he winced, hand going to his neck.

“Thought that might happen,” she observed, smug grin in place.

His affronted face never ceased to entertain her, “And you didn’t move me?”

“Nope.”

He just shook his head without breaking eye contact, and she laughed properly, settling down to drop her head forward.

“My turn. Wake me up if we get to Ivarstead.”

The gods knew she was too invested to run now.

 

Ivarstead, it turned out, was a depressingly isolated hamlet smack bang in the middle of Riften and Whiterun, nestled in the shelter of its unnecessarily giant neighbor. Whilst the surrounding brush lands were fairly snow free, the town itself seemed to be getting the lion’s share of the Winter rolling down off the summit above, the tip climbing higher than the cloud lauyer, and the cart wheels crunching through slush as they reached the outskirts.

“Just head on through - the start of the Seven Thousand Steps is just at the end of the village.”

Shyvana leapt to her feet with a grateful groan, cracking out her back, as Jarvan descended with slightly more decorum beside her. The driver gave his whip a sharp crack, and the two beasts were all too glad to head off back to the relative warmth of Whiterun Hold.

Shyvana scowled up at the clouds, “Do you think Seven Thousand Steps is just an expression?”

“Actually, I’m desperately hoping, but similar sentiment, I suppose. And here, might keep the snow from pissing you off any more than the usual.”

Her cowl was yanked over her head, rough fabric pressing uncomfortably against her ears, but Jarvan just pulled up his own with a smile directed at her unimpressed glower and then the pair were heading into the town.

Ivarstead clearly didn’t get many travellers, as eyes followed the two bundled up strangers making their way through. Most were huddled under cowls of their own, the weather not bad enough for the villagers to cease their activities as they hustled about the Main Street.

Before them, the immense peak loomed and Jarvan stopped beside her.

“Maybe we should buy some food. I’m thinking this might last the night.”

“I do _not_ want to spend a night climbing a stupid mountain,” she rumbled beside him, trailing him as he beelined for a food vendor, huddled under a tarp to keep off the snow.

“Rare for strangers to come,” he noted, handing over some wrapped jerky and sliced bread, counting out the corresponding silver pieces, courtesy of the Warmother, “you here for a pilgrimage?”

“People make _pilgrimages_ up that thing?” She asked in disbelief, before scowling over as Jarvan aggressively elbowed her ribs. The man just laughed.

“Bunch of crazies, they are, Miss Elf. Here, Klimmek’s the only one crazy enough to do that.”

“Why?” Jarvan straightened up beside her, managing to hold a perfect expression even as her toes drove into the back of his heel, “Is he a trainee?”

“Nah, nothing like that. He just carts supplies up for the Targonians every week or two. Better man than I, that he is.”

A loud call sounded further down the street, and they both tilted their heads back to try and get a better view. 

The vendor just rolled his eyes.

“Ah, the latest of the crazies. I’d recommend just goin’ around that lot.”

“Thank you,” Jarvan dipped his head politely, whereas Shyvana simply mock saluted, earning a chuckle from the vendor as they walked off.

“Come on, let’s check it out,” she began walking towards the gathering crowd and Jarvan just barked a laugh.

“Didn’t he just say it’s best to avoid them?”

“I like looking at crazies,” she fished out one of their newly acquired jerky pieces, biting off a bit much to his dismay, “Sides, maybe we can get them to go up before us. Fill up what’s out  there so they leave us alone.”

A hand pressed on top of her head.

“I’m not sure whether to be more affronted by your continuous desire to use others as bait, or that you are already eating food that I would very much like to last at least twelve hours.”

She sent him a sly grin, before tossing over the last bite of her jerky piece for him to finish.

He rolled his eyes but ate it anyway.

“Lies! Lies fill the street! In this time of chaos, the forces in power would have us believing lies!”

She glanced up, interested, “Ah yes. Crazies.”

Standing before the crowd of entertained townsfolk were a pair of heavily robed individuals, elaborate skull masks shielding their faces. The taller was waving her arms to great effect.

“Word spreads of the Dragonborn, yet they are wrong! This False Dragonborn comes for nothing but to deceive you all! The True Dragonborn will soon arise, and bring destined punishment those foolish enough to claim his destiny-”

“Vocal lot, aren’t they?” Jarvan tilted his head to whisper, even if a tinge of irritation had entered his voice, “where was this ‘True Dragonborn’ when the Watchtower was attacked?”

“Well they’re not entirely wrong,” she whispered back, pointedly, “the return of the Dragonborn _is_ just rumours. What I can do is only a coincidence.”

He sent her a look that severely doubted the claim, and she scowled as the sensation of being humored returned in full force.

“Whatever. Come on, I doubt these preachers are going to be climbing seven thousand steps any time soon.”

He gave a short nod, and they began weaving their way through the crowd, most people parting for the two individuals with enough height to match even the Nords, and she quietly begged the gods for a quick escape.

“You! Traveller!”

Her gods had forsaken her.

(Not strictly out of character for them, but still disheartening)

The speaker was pointing directly at her, and she realized, with a faint note of discomfort, that her mask was shaped like a dragon skull.

“For what purpose have you come to Ivarstead, to the Steps? Do you to desire to meet this False Dragonborn?”

“Not really, and I don’t care,” she adjusted her cowl higher and turned her back, only to find the second had looped around to stand in the street between them and the short bridge that led over to the Steps.

. . . _Really_

At her side, Jarvan had straightened, hand moving to rest under his cloak, where she knew he had sheathed the hunting knife.

“Many of us are blinded by lies, and thus deny what is undeniable-!” The preacher was continuing and Shyvana felt her irritation mount.

“What part of ‘I don’t care’ isn’t processing?”

“Just leave it Shyv,” Jarvan rested his spare hand on her back, pushing her slightly so that they were now walking to where the second one awaited them.

“Why do you leave?” he asked, spreading his arms wide, “We are simply here to spread the truth. Would you really turn your back on the truth?”

“We just want to climb a mountain. No more, no less,” Jarvan smiled politely, trying to brush past him.

As the knife came out from the sleeve of his cloak, he flipped his own out to block, the clash of steel immediately gathering the attention of the village.

“Spies!” He shrieked. “Spies of the False Dragonborn!”

Shyvana slipped in, twisted the cultist’s wrist and hurled him onto his back with a satisfying gasp.

The audience’s cheers turned to screams as he struggled to his feet, fire igniting in his hands.

“That’s our cue,” Jarvan’s hand seized hers and the two sprinted over the bridge, reaching the Steps and beginning the climb as the shrieking of the second preacher was settled by the villagers apprehending him.

Jarvan didn’t let go of her hand until they were a good hundred steps up, Ivarstead already startlingly far beneath them.

Jarvan let out a hard puff of air, slumping back into the snow with a crunch. Shyvana just arched an eyebrow, significantly less winded.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have sprinted up a mountain with seven thousand steps?”

“Maybe,” he sent her wry grin, “but I kind of wanted to get out before something else showed up.”

“You’re going to jinx us,” she responded flatly, earning herself a laugh.

After another moment of recovery, he exhaled and clambered up, swiping the snow off his cloak. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” they both tilted their heads up to the summit, higher than the clouds above, “let’s do this.”

 

Any optimism that they had vanished by approximately Step 1003

(Jarvan was actually counting. Which was making everything _that_ much more enjoyable.)

She didn’t know how long they had been plodding up the messily cut steps, but she knew that the clouds weren’t getting any closer, and the only part of her that burnt were her leg muscles. Every now and then, a lone torch was jammed haphazardly into the cliff face, reassuring them that they were still following the actual path, but it offered nothing in terms of heat.

Despite her bravado, Shyvana had to admit, as she inhaled another breath seeming to be made of nothing but ice, that the Housecarl had a point about the weather.

She was _frozen_.

And they were only 1003 steps of the way there.

Jarvan’s perpetual mutterings intruded on her dark mood.

Her mistake. 1012 now.

“Weren’t there meant to be wolves or something up here?” she grumbled aloud, inciting Jarvan to pause, “And you can count in your head, we’re not stopping.”

He assumed his signature affronted look she could only describe as Imperial Disdain (Indignant At Being Insulted has been another strong contender), but he kept climbing.

“Counting’s keeping me focused. I don’t really want to fade into my head up here. And do you _want_ wolves?”

“I want something that isn’t just climbing up an icicle.” She scuffed her boots against the snow, fixating on the small dislodged bits tumbling down the sides on their left. “People climb this thing as a life-changing challenge, right? Why do we have to do it?”

“Because a bunch of people we’ve never seen yelled at you from their fortress,” Jarvan responded dryly, before sobering slightly, “besides at least it’s just boring and cold. That’s immeasurably better compared to . . . to . . .” his throat caught.

(Compared to Helgen. Compared to a dragon.)

She rumbled, discontent and guilty for some reason.

“That’s true.”

They climbed the way to the next torch in faintly awkward silence, Jarvan clearing his throat as they neared the small plateau.

“We’re at 1050. The Housecarl recommended we put these on now. It’s going to get a lot colder from here on out.”

“Joy.” She nevertheless reached out for the cloak gratefully, wrapping the enchanted garment around her already thoroughly cloaked body.

Immediately, heat radiated out from the fabric and she let out a deep moan of relief.

Jarvan’s teeth chattered slightly as he wrapped himself in his own cloak, flexing and clenching his fingers in a somewhat desperate attempt to rekindle circulation.

They closed up their bags and set off again.

Here, the steps stopped climbing around the mountain, and instead began climbing _up_ the mountain. The unevenness worsened, some requiring them to haul each other up, others covering ten steps in a single foot. The clouds were still far off, but the snow thickened, burying the ground and forcing them to trudge their way through, the water resist charms in their boots constantly active and tingling Shyvana’s feet. Every so often it would flatten out slightly and they’d take the chance to drink water (kept right near their cores to prevent freezing) and nibble on food as sparingly as possible. And all the while, the sun continued to trickle lower and lower, taking both the light and the scant amount of warmth with it as it went.

“We might have to camp the night . . .” Jarvan mumbled around blue lips, as the pair edged their way past a very rotten board holding back a towering amount of snow from the path.

Shyvana just shook her head fervently.

“N-no way. We’ll definit-tely freeze. How much-ch farther?”

She reached out and hauled him up the next mega-step, the few lone trees still bravely protruding from the cliff face creating eerie skeletons around them.

“If there are Seven Thousand? Another three thousand.”

Just as Shyvana went to let out a howl of frustration, something beat her.

The wailing sound carried through the bare trees and they both stiffened, hands moving to various weapons tucked away safely. Jarvan was stiff, and she remembered that his darksight was nowhere near as good as hers, just in time to strike forward and slam the bladed edges of her gauntlets around a hungry wolf’s neck, dangerously shy of it taking a chunk of Jarvan’s arm off.

He swore, stumbling and they both slipped, feet unsteady on the snow and ice. The skitter of claws on ice alerted her to swing around, fire gathering at her hands and turning the gauntlets into torches, lighting up the twilight. The next wolf got a fireball straight to the fur, shrieking and smashing into the trees around them. As the kindle wood set alight, eyes materialised in the dark, wary of coming closer. One bunched and she prepared to strike it down.

An arrow sailed before it had the chance, downing the creature in its hiding place and sent panicked cries through the pack, most of them startling and repositioning.

“Shyvana, south!”

She turned and hurled another fire ball. It exploded amongst the dead trees and the wolves revealed in the light went down at Jarvan’s arrows. A swelling of howls marked the pack rounding in the shadows, preparing to lunge.

A demented scream echoed over the snow and the small conflict paused.

With whines, the wolves took off, not bothering with the dead ones, back into the trees, and away from the path.

Shyvana felt her cheeks puff out, annoyed for the fight to be cut short, standing back up out of her crouch.

“What was that?” she absently wiped the back of her neck, feeling the sweat trickling down and already beginning to freeze against her skin.

Jarvan just sighed, “No idea. But it seems to be in our way.”

They both looked to where the sound had resonated.

The point where the path hooked around to cut through several walls of ice.

 

Shyvana took point with her darksight, Jarvan gripping her shoulder, both agreeing that using a fire would be far too much of a beacon. Twilight had left sometime during the encounter in the dead forest and it taken all light with it. Even the single torch brazenly stuck at the beginning of the ice walls offered barely any respite from the now encroaching dark.

Behind the howls of the wolves were still going on from the depths of the mountain wilds, the screaming had remained constant, the creature lurking within distinctly pissed off by the disruptions. In the cacophony, the faint crunches of their boots against snow had been significantly hidden, and Shyvana advanced as quickly as she could, not keen on staying too long. At the distinct sound of crunching ice, she pressed her face around the corner, red eyes leaving faint trails of light.

“. . . Hm.”

“What is it?”

She ducked back as another unholy scream lit up the night.

“Frost troll. I think.”

Jarvan’s face screwed up. “You think?”

“I’ve never seen one before!” she responded, defensive. “I’m _pretty_ sure it’s a frost troll.”

“Then can you set in on fire?” he squinted in the vague direction of her face.

She chewed her lip.

“. . . Maybe?”

“Very reassuring.”

She sent another glance around the corner, eyeing the hulking shape.  Halfway between them and it, a slight ledge had formed in the ice, higher than its reach.

If they could make it there . . . and lure it back to the entrance . . .

“Let’s go.”

She slunk out in the path, allowing her feet to sink into as shallow snow as she could spy in the dark, careful to go slow enough for Jarvan to match her footsteps.

The ledge glinted tantalisingly.

She muffled a yelp as her foot came down and promptly sunk about half a metre downwards, Jarvan stumbling over her as she suddenly fell downwards, knocking against the side of the path.

There was a moment of frigid silence.

And then all three eyes blinked, and the troll roared loud enough to loosen the snow. 

“Jarvan, torch!” she shouted, shoving him one way and crawling out the other, as it swung forward at them.

“Got it!”

She scrambled up, feet slow in the snow drift, and hurled a fireball as best she could.

She heard Jarvan’s yelp as it came inches from his face, the torch catching on fire and lighting up the scene before them.

The troll screamed a ghastly wail at the sight of the fire, Jarvan scrambling up and swinging the torch aggressively.

Shyvana called fire to her fingers and sent it hurling forwards, colliding with the coarse fur and igniting the dried oils trapped in the matting.

A moment later, several arrows flew through the air, targeting the weakened burnt patches, sinking into flesh and agitating the troll even more.

“Start circling around!” she called over the racket, trying to space out her attacks to give Jarvan more targets.

He didn’t respond verbally, simply nodding and beginning to shuffle through.

The troll backed off, plunging into a snow drift to extinguish the burning fur, patches underneath blackened and raw.

The arrows pushed themselves out, muted thuds against the snow.

She blinked, ever so slightly loosening her stance.

The blackened bits cracked and hardened, peeling off to reveal perfectly intact flesh underneath.

“Hey . . . Jarvan?” her voice trembled, “trolls don’t happen to have Regeneration, do they?”

Jarvan gawked at her, hand going to his forehead. “. . . Shit.”

The troll lunged at them, both barely managing to dodge, but it was already swiping towards the Imperial. Shyvana jolted at his startled gasp, before the torch shattered in two, Jarvan backing off and cradling his arm, the fire extinguishing against the snow. The troll roared its triumph, before howling as Shyvana’s next fireball collided with its head.

It reared back, trying to clear its sight, and she ducked underneath, unslinging her satchel.

“Change of plans, grab this!” Jarvan jumped as her satchel slammed into his hands, struggling to keep hold.

“Wait, Shyv-?!”

She caught his chest plate and hurled him up onto the ledge. His startled yelp drew the frost troll’s attention, a faint grunt and clank of plate reassuring her he’d made it.

She dove to the side, unleadened as the troll charged.

“Shyvana?!” his voice echoed, and the troll glanced back, confused, “I can’t see! What’s happening?!”

Good.

In the cover of the dark, she took a deep breath, breathing in fire and blood, before letting it out.

Even the troll stumbled back from whatever its primitive senses detected, her eyes razor thin, scales rippling across her limbs and teeth sharpening.

She lashed out forward, hand aflame and the troll howled as claws ripped clean through its arm, the limb flying to stain the walls red, the stump cauterised. She flipped back over its outraged strike, landing her claws into one of its legs. It dropped to its knees with a howl and she dislodged, leaping up to sink teeth into its neck.

Her entire body exploded with fire, and the troll howled as the course fur exploded into flame, its remaining hand knocking her (and a solid amount of its neck) clean off, as it streaked away, off the path, to find a patch of snow and ice to huddle in. She spat, faintly disgusted, wincing as her spine flared with sharp pain.

“. . . Are you okay?”

The stench of blood was heady, warm on her mouth and hands, and making the Thing in her shove and push at her body, trying to break free. Clawing at her arms hard enough to make them bleed, she forced it all back down, hurriedly, as Jarvan slid down beside her, looking for a fresh torch.

“Gods, Shyvana, you’re bleeding-!”

“Not mine, relax,” she absently licked the stains off her hands, even as Jarvan crouched down, holding out some of their food supplies. Her mouth was still salivating like a tap, and she devoured it brutally, the small amount barely touching her hunger, but touching enough for her to crush it down.

“Is it dead?” Jarvan lit up the torch with a sharp crack, eyeing the severed arm lying a few steps away. She shook her head.

“N-nah, just scared off. We should . . . should move.”

Her attempt to get up was stoppered by his hand at her shoulder, pushing her down.

“If it’s hurt, we can afford a few minutes,” he responded rationally, “you need to rest.”

She blinked up at him for a few defensive moments, before the aches in her body made her glance down.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He dropped down beside her, jamming the torch at the feet as best he could.

With a tired huff, she slumped over, slouching against him and letting her eyes shut.

 

They didn’t stay long. The longer the night lasted, the greater the winds began to howl, and they still had another 2000 odd steps to go to the top (2077 according to Jarvan). Retrieving their scattered gear, they wound their way to the end of the ice and began the final ascent. Yet despite the frigid winds trying to yank them off the sides of the mountains, and the fast approaching cloud layer, it seemed eerily still and quiet. Yes, it was cold, and sure, they couldn’t see more than a few steps ahead, yet there were no looming threats. No creaking trees. No shifting snow and ice.

It was just . . . quiet.

They were properly sinking into the snow now, shoveling through the path as best they could, the moving snow the only substantial noise. As they breached the six thousandth step, arriving finally at the cloud layer, the noise fell completely.

“Shyv . . .” Jarvan’s voice seemed muffled as they waded through the cloud, “do we have any rope?”

“A bit.”

“Tie yourself to me. We could get lost up here pretty easily.”

She nodded curtly, yanking out the rope and fastening it tight around her waist as quickly as possible, before moving to loop it around his belt, Jarvan continuously poking the end of his bow through the snow to feel the steps. Shyvana tried to kindle a fire in her fingers, but the cold and ice snuffed it out almost immediately.

“We can hold hands, if you’re scared.” Jarvan’s voice was ever so slightly teasing and she huffed.

“I’m not scared. Are you?”

“. . . Not quite. Uneasy might be better,” he uselessly patted at the clouds around them, “anything could come at us and we’d never see it coming.”

“Anything still alive out here almost deserves it.”

She pricked her ears up anyway, tilting them to try and identify any incoming sounds. 

Jarvan’s form was almost invisible, her own hands grey and formless in the cloud.

“-vana!”

She froze. She knew that voice.

“. . . Father?”

“Shyvana!”

She turned, eyes wide and heart pounding in shock, trying to peer through the fog, “I’m here! Father, where are you?”

Something was tugging on her shoulder and she fought it desperately. 

A terrified scream (her father’s scream) sounded in the night, and she blinked at the shadow before her.

“Help!”

It was him. It was _him_. Raw panic and hope surged through her, and she barely noticed as the resistance at her shoulders suddenly released, as she went to sprint forward.

Sharp sudden pain caught her stomach and she gasped, going down hard as a force dragged her backwards.

She snarled, spinning around, ready to _burn_ whatever had interceded, and her face was whipped hard as the rope went taught, smacking her cheek as Jarvan tried to scramble away.

Jarvan? She blinked and the screams of her father seemed to echo within her head.

Echo . . .

Oh fuck.

She turned, desperate, as fingers just passed through cloud, her father _just_ out of reach and she inhaled sharply. The sharp cold tang of wind flew into her head, the kind of wind that can only grow so cold this high up. Her brain kicked itself back into gear, just as the rope around her gut tugged again, winding her.

“Stay there!” Jarvan roared through the clouds, hands stretched out, rope wearing thin.

Another pained gasp, another scream.

“Shyvana!” Her father’s voice wailed around her, “Please!”

Her head pounded. Her breath was sharp, and she dug her nails in _hard._

Turning her back to his voice, she got her bloody hands around the rope and gripped tight. Jarvan stumbled as the resistance doubled, hands reaching and his whole torso straining.

“Release me!”

“It’s not real!” Shyvana roared, ignoring the screams of her father, “Jarvan! Listen to me!”The already strained rope grew thinner and she clenched her jaw, dug in her heels, and _yanked_.

Jarvan stumbled back from the sudden boost of strength and she lunged forward as the rope snapped in two, tackling him hard, both their bodies sinking into the snow.

Without pause, Jarvan was struggling to his feet, Shyvana bear hugging him with all her strength.

“JARVAN!”

“Garen!” Jarvan yelled, fighting against her furiously, “Hold on! I’m coming!”

“FUCKING HELL!” She shrieked, giving in slightly and feeling her draconic strength flow freely.

“Shyvana?!” behind her, her Father’s voice echoed in panic, trying to find her.

Just like

Just like when

“NO!” she screamed, screwing her eyes shut, trying to keep a grip on Jarvan’s struggling limbs. “YOU’RE DEAD! DEAD IS DEAD!”

“GAREN!”

“SNAP OUT OF IT!”

Another terrified scream filled the night and she grit her teeth, before reaching out to wrap every non-armoured part of Jarvan in her limbs.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” she grit out, before her entire being exploded into fire. Jarvan physically recoiled in her grip, but the sounds of his panicked scream were drowned up by the hiss of the clouds immediately condensing into rain, the snow burning away, her magicka pouring out of her entire being.

It fled in a rush, two burnouts in less than an hour more than draining, and she collapsed backwards, dragging her companion down with her.

“. . . Shyvana?”

A shaking hand grabbed her arm, before it violently shook her, panic rampant.

“Shyvana?! Shyvana, please-!”

“Knock it off,” she weakly swatted at her, “bout time you snapped out of it.”

They were sitting in a small damp ditch, melted snow creating a wide circle around them, the voices in the clouds temporarily chased off by the melt.

Jarvan himself looked more than a little heat blasted, but his dragon scale armour and her own resistance appeared to have done enough work, his skin red from the cold, but not the fire. He was still glancing around, uneasy.

“I . . . I thought I saw . . .”

“It’s a lie. Just a stupid illusion.” She sat up with a faint groan and dug out a potion of magicka from her bag. He helped her shaking fingers uncork it.

“How do you know that? He sounded . . .”

“Because I was hearing someone different,” she snapped, downing the entire thing and finally feeling like she wasn’t about to empty her stomach, “and my guy is already dead.”

He recoiled, face stricken, which she sourly ignored as she got to her feet.

“Is . .. is that what it was? The voices of the dead?” he asked, face aghast, “Is . . . does that mean-?”

“I don’t think it’s that picky – they’re just voices we’d probably run towards.” She capped the empty bottle and chucked it in her bag, “I hate illusions.”

Jarvan exhaled, still slightly shaky.

She eyed him. “So. Who’s Garen?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“If you last saw him alive, he’s probably alive. Like I said, illusions enjoy fucking with you.”

“. . . Right,” Jarvan reached up, probably to yank at his hair, but only bumped his helm, “makes sense.”

They both sat there, really not focused on the other, before Shyvana sighed and cracked her neck sharply. The sound made Jarvan jump.

“Let’s go. I’m not in the mood to wait until the clouds settle back atop us.”

“Indeed.” A small smile cracked in his face, “It would be rather unpleasant.”

Fortunately, despite the panic and chaos, the path wasn’t too hard to rediscover, a single torch lighting up the way for them to crest above the cloud layer, breath heavy this high, as they reached a large plateau. Around them, the night sparkled with thousands of stars previously unseen under the clouds, the only thing higher on the mountain being a single summit surrounded by an ice storm.

And before them, bedecked in welcoming torches, was High Hrothgar.

“Huh,” Jarvan stared up at it, “it’s only 6,983.”

(She absently kicked him in the shins)

High Hrothgar loomed before them, an immense turreted fortress veritably clinging to the penultimate summit of the mountain, winds buffeting the unmoving stone. A rather ominous set of stairs guided them past a statue of Jurgen Windcaller, and it said something that the stone doors were open and waiting for them. 

On the doorstop, for the first time in her life, Shyvana hesitated.

Jarvan paused as well, his dark eyes searching her face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she swallowed and yanked her shoulders back, “just imagined it’d be slightly less intimidating. Come on - let’s go learn how to kill Dragons.”

With that declared she marched in without looking to see if Jarvan had followed her, ignoring the sinking feeling that she had just made some sort of terrible commitment in crossing that threshold.

The harsh thud of the stone doors swinging shut behind them didn’t help that feeling.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome, Dragonborn, to High Hrothgar.”

The harsh voice cut the air and she almost flinched, jumping back around on instinct. It wasn’t a dragon’s voice, not quite, but it still brutalized the magicka around them, shaking the world simply by being spoken.

Braziers lit up around them and Jarvan let out an involuntary gasp beside her, even as she straightened slightly, eyes wide.

They were standing in an immense hall, the vaulted ceiling soaring high, likely to the very tip of the fortress, and sweeping stone staircases, guarded by immense statues lined the alcove hewn walls, gathering into a balcony at the back of the hall. Revealed before them was a group of individuals, spread out over the hall. One, clad in golden armor and with amber hair, stood atop the balcony, her eyes following them in. Another, with silver hair and a glowing rune emblazoned on her forehead, had perched atop a statue’s head, silver boots swinging back and forth.  Right behind her, a man, crazy enough to wear his shirt _open_ in this climate, was resting in one of the alcoves, long cerulean cape attached with gems.

Shyvana couldn’t pick up any of their races.

She involuntarily stiffened, hearing Jarvan pause behind her, frowning at the man in the alcove.

ight between the staircase, a second man waited for them, spear tip shining in the torchlight, and face hidden away behind a plumed helmet, dark eyes little more than slits.

He slammed the butt of his spear into the ancient tiles.

“I am Pantheon, the War, and I will speak for the Targonians,” once again, that Voice contorted the very air, noticeable enough that Jarvan stiffened, uncomfortable. Shyvana shifted, hand moving in front of him protectively, eyes narrow.

“I was told to come here, to learn how to kill dragons.”

The two women exchanged glances, and the masked one shook his head.

“We do not concern ourselves with that sort of thing. You are the Dragonborn, and to train you in your gift is our charge. What you choose to do with such knowledge is your own choice.”

“I am _not_ the Dragonborn, and that _wasn’t_ what I was told!” She snarled, crouching and baring her teeth.

None of them reacted, but Pantheon’s gaze burnt into her in a way that _scalded._

 _“_ We called you and you came. We did not extend any deal further than such an accord. If you had expectations, that is no bearing on us.”

“I killed a dragon, and then you promptly Shouted over the whole of Whiterun.  I thought the Drgaon killing part was implied.”

 “A mistake which you can now see was wrong. Now, before we begin,” the butt of his spear slammed into the ground, once more, “prove you are the Dragonborn.”

Her vision bled red.

“ _Are you mocking_ -!?”

A hand gripped her shoulder and she snarled at Jarvan, moving in front of her.

“We answered your summons,” his tone was even, polite, “isn’t that proof enough?”

“Anyone could have heard us,” Pantheon kept that arrogant chin in the air, “but only one can answer in kind.”

Jarvan’s forehead twitched, but this time she grabbed the arm at her shoulder. As he turned, gaze questioning, she ducked under and beamed with her full row of dragon teeth.

“You want my answer?”

Her entire body burnt, as she summoned power that rested inside her, not magicka but not strength, something warm and potent that Yvva had handed to her.

**_“FUS!”_ **

Jarvan’s yell of alarm was unheard in the roar that echoed through the fortress, blasting away her surroundings and sending Pantheon stumbling back into the wall, hard. The other three were all staring piercingly at her.

And most of them were smiling.

Jarvan’s grip was iron as she stumbled back, shaking from the exertion, and the look he was sending her was the most unimpressed visage she had ever gazed upon.

He turned. 

“I apologise-”

Pantheon pounded his spear on the ground twice, clambering back up.

“Good!” He declared, tone vicious, “Very good, Dragonborn!”

“I’m not the Dragonborn,” she retorted, “I can use that one and that one alone.”

“Of course, you’ve only ever had one dragon soul - but now! After the Watchtower, you’ve acquired a second!”

She frowned.

“You have the power - we can teach you the discipline to make them stronger. Leona will show you ‘Ro’.”

“Ro?” Jarvan echoed, frowning slightly, as the golden clad woman seemed to animate herself, heels clicking on the ancient steps.

“Dovah for Balance,” she informed him, and he turned to her.

“You already know it?”

“Knowing and Shouting are two entirely different things,” Pantheon gave her a once over. She bared her teeth right back, “As the Dragonborn, you possess a Dragon’s Soul - that gives you the natural power to project your Voice as a Thu’um. And the more souls you amass, the more Thu’um you will be able to withstand.”

Jarvan was frowning in concentration beside her, but she sobered up.

Yes. She knew very well how Shouts worked from the last time.

(She’d failed the last time)

The woman moved past them, before burning the Shout into the wall.

Her Voice wasn’t harsh in the way Pantheon’s was, or feral like Shyvana. It was warm and enveloping yet _seared_ the stones like the pure heat of the Sun itself. Shyvana eyed the glowing red runes with extreme trepidation. 

All she had to do was look at it, say it, and nothing would happen. (Just like before.) And then this stupid Dragonborn nonsense could be put behind her.

Mechanically, she reached out, running her hands over the golden letters, pulsing just like the blue in Bleak Falls Barrow.

And then they swum out. She froze, about to bolt, before yelling as searing heat merged with the Something inside, just like the dragon at the Watchtower, but heavier (powerful).

She dimly realized she was probably screaming, but she only became aware again to find herself half sprawled, Jarvan holding her tight, face infuriated.

“-!!”

“-.”

“-did you do!?”

“Let her go, Jarvan,” the melodic Voice broke through from the Targonian reclining under the arch, his bejewelled headpiece glittering in the torchlight, “the Lady can take of herself.”

“It’s okay, Jay,” she pulled herself up with his support, catching herself with a stumble, “I’m fine.”

Aside from the ringing ears.

The light had faded, the stone was just stone, and Something very fundamental to her had changed.

It made her spine _crawl_.

Still hovering alongside, Jarvan’s face was contorted, half anxious over her, and half squinting at the bejewelled Targonian, before deciding on her.

“You sure? You were screaming-”

“I’m  _fine_.” She straightened up and scowled towards Pantheon. She wanted this finished. “Now what?”

The woman of the Sun simply produced a gilt shield and planted it into the ground before her.

Pantheon gestured, “Test your new might.”

She maintained her scowl on principle, turning to face the guarded Targonian.

 _“FUS,”_ the Something swirled hard and she waited for it to release and die, for her second word to be useless, ** _“RO!”_**

It didn’t quite go that way.

She physically recoiled as the Shout was released, crashing through the fortress and sending the Targonian stumbling back, shield spikes ripping a jagged scar through the floor.

She sort of blinked, staring at the effects, even as she struggled to regain her breath.

. . . What?

“Excellent,” Pantheon pounded his spear, “Dragonborn without doubt. Come. Your next trial awaits.”

“Give her a break, for pity’s sake!” Jarvan snapped, and his supportive arms went stiff as the Silver Woman lithely dropped down right in front of them. Her pulsing eyes cast Shyvana a once over, before she turned and strode up the stairs, vanishing down a corridor.

“Follow Diana,” Pantheon told her, “outside.”

“Give me a hand, Jarvan,” she demanded, petulantly, her whole body shivering, “I can do this again.”

“I swear to the gods, Shyv-”

“Don’t coddle me,” she stumbled out, forcing her shoulders back, “let’s go.”

Maybe releasing Jarvan was a mistake, fatigue threatening to send her crashing to the ground, but nobody noticed the stumble and she marched forward, undaunted.

He followed closely behind, disapproving frown burning her back.

The Silver Woman led them to a small set of doors, equally thick as the front ones but considerably lesser in size, which opened up to a small back courtyard. Or at least, it might have been a courtyard - the amount of snow that likely permanently covered it had rendered it into more of a barren wasteland, nothing beyond it but an ice storm blocking off the path to the summit.

In the roar of the elements, ferocious without any glimmer of dawn, even the Silver Woman’s Voice seemed small, an eerie whisper that curled the stones.

Shyvana squinted at it, frowning.

“That’s not part of Unrelenting Force,” she rounded on Pantheon, indignant but the mask just stared at her.

“Of course not. Your next trial is an entirely new Shout - tell me, you haven’t happened  to slay any other dragons on your way here, have you?”

She scowled at him. _“No_.”

“Pity. Diana, lend her your knowledge.”

The Silver Woman sent him an irritated roll of eyebrows, before gliding over to her. Shyvana managed to refrain from actively spooking, but it was a close call.

“What are you doing?” She asked, twitching as the Woman latched out and caught her wrist.

“Knowing a Shout requires either a Dragon Soul, or years of practice.” Pantheon ran fingers over the lettering, “and unfortunately, you do not have another soul, and Skyrim does not have years for you to practice. Diana is effectively lending you her power, until you can gain another soul to bolster it yourself.”

“What is it this time?” Jarvan just sighed, glancing between the lettering and her. She blinked, tilting her head to read it better.

“It’s ‘whirlwind’ or Wuld-” she almost stumbled as Diana’s whole being glowed with silver light. In a rush, it swarmed her and Shyvana attempted to snatch her hand free with a snarl.

“ **Stay with me** ,” Diana’s Voice ricocheted around them, echoing through her skull, her grip iron, “Stay with me.”

Shyvana half-heartedly snarled once more, stance wide and weight low as she felt the Silver shove its way into her, rewriting the Something.

And then the woman was letting go and she dropped into the snow with a strangled groan, head pounding and sweat freezing on her neck and face.

“Now,” Pantheon’s arm shot up to cut off Jarvan’s route to her, “can you tell me what Shout that forms the basis of?”

She squinted at him, bleary.

Huh.

She actually knew it.

“Whirlwind Sprint,” she snapped, none too happy about any of this.

He nodded, “So? What are you waiting for?”

What was she waiting for? For the world to stop spinning? For all of this to stop working? For the End in general?

The mask didn’t move. “A rhetorical question. Observe Diana.”

The woman flicked aside her long hair, striding over to a gate resting before the blocked path upwards.

It swung open and she seemed to vanish. Shyvana straightened.

Only for a moment, and then Diana reappeared behind the closing gate, the wind moving to catch up with her.

Pantheon turned to her, the gate once more swinging open with a click of his fingers.

“Your turn now.”She sent him a scowl on principle, pushing off from the snow with a stumble and expecting the gate.

A creak signified it beginning to close and she inhaled.

“ **Wuld**.”

It was quieter, subtler, than before but gods below did it work. A single step and she seemed to fly, body whipping forward faster than she could control. Diana thankfully moved aside as she arrived, stumbling and tripping right into a snow dune.

Cold surged through her and she sat up with a gasp, immediately kindling her magicka to reheat her core.

Hands appeared at her shoulder, and Jarvan corrected his grip for a freezing moment, before hauling her out completely.

They both stumbled, and she exhaled fiercely, sweat steaming off her neck.

“Is that it?” she half groaned in his ear, “Am I done?” He sent her a tight smile, not removing his arms from their supportive position.

Pantheon strode over to them, uncaring.

“The Dragonborn’s proficiency is truly extraordinary. No wonder our Teacher desires to meet with you.”

“Teacher?” She gasped out, rubbing off sweat before it became ice. “Isn’t there just you lot?”

“Indeed not,” he turned his gaze to the blocked off summit, “we are the four Targonians - but our Teacher is the one who is a true master of the Voice. He wants to meet with you.”

She groaned, struggling up with much assistance, “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

He gave her a once over. “Oh, you’re not doing anything like that. Eat, sleep and leave until you are ready.”

They both blinked.

“Pardon?” Jarvan asked, incredulous, “ _Leave until you are ready?”_

“To prove yourself, you must learn from us the last part of Unrelenting Force - but you are already on one amount of borrowed knowledge and one alone is clearly too much. Come back to us when you can withstand it.”

“I’ll be able to withstand it tomorrow.” She snapped, “I’m not hiking up here again.”

He just shook his head, and she sort of wanted to punch him in the mask.

“No. You will _not_ be able to. I would recommend-”

“The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller,” Diana spoke over him and they all paused, glancing to her. Pantheon let out a rumble.

“Diana-?”

“Find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the first Targonian, in an ancient fane called Ustengrav,” she shrugged her shoulders, “get it and come back, and you’ll be plenty strong enough.”

“Ustevngrav is-”

“Trust me, Pantheon,” her eyes glittered that peculiar silver, “That’s where they need to go. She can do what she wants afterwards - it’s up to her when she comes back.” With that, Diana gave a curt nod and vanished back into High Hrothgar, silver hair leaving a faint glow behind her.

Pantheon shifted, noticeably displeased, but he nevertheless turned to them.

“In that case, you both heard her. The fane can be found close to Morthal. If the Moon says you need to go there, then go there you will.”

Shyvana glowered, sticking up her chin. “Fine. In that case-”

Jarvan absently covered her mouth with his hand, “Could we at least rest for a bit? The journey up was . . . eventful.”

“If it were easier, then it wouldn’t be a pilgrimage.” Pantheon shrugged out his shoulders, heading back towards the gates. “Very well - the dawn comes in several hours. You may delay until then.”

He led them back through the corridors, returning to the entrance hall, the two exactly where’d they left them, Diana leaning against a side door.

“Leona will take you from here,” Pantheon prodded Shyvana’s back with his spear pole, but caught Jarvan’s wrist, “Not you, man of the Empire!”

Jarvan paused, and Shyvana and he exchanged looks. “. . . yes?”

“It is no mean feat to partake in the challengers awaiting the Dragonborn. Come with me.”

Shyvana might have intervened as her friend was promptly whisked away, Pantheon retrieving a second worryingly sharp spear on the way out, had he not allowed Braum to haul her away to attempt to read the most minute carved writings the unnecessarily friendly man had found. 

(Honestly, if Braum _hadn’t_ been the most genuine and overall nice person to be around, Jarvan would have gotten even less sympathy)

With their designated speaker gone, the woman in gold made her way down the sweeping staircase, the other two vanishing away down various stone corridors.

“I can take you to some spare rooms - there are plenty of pilgrims who come here, and we always make sure to have space for them.”

“Is he going to be all right?” She asked instead, squinting down the corridor Jarvan had been dragged into.

The woman in gold blinked, before snickering into her palm.

“Oh yes. I’m sure he’ll be positively sprightly in the morning.” 

Her tone indicated an alarming amount of sarcasm, but Shyvana was already been guided down a separate corridor, full of various potted herbs and empty stone rooms. 

She was distracted by what seemed to be a water jug full of blossoming _red_ nirnroot, when the woman in gold stopped.

“Is this all right?”

Her eyes were bright and Shyvana spontaneously appreciated being able to look at a pair of eyes that weren’t fluorescent silver, nor covered by a helmet.

“Yes . . .” she paused, before adding the grudging, “Thank you.”

“The climb is not something to be underestimated,” she let out a warm laugh, “and although you have yet to reach the Throat of the World and truly understand what it means to be a Targonian, I think we can offer you this much, Dragonborn.”

“Shyvana.” She corrected, uncomfortable, “I’d rather Shyvana.”

“Shyvana then,” the woman produced an obscene amount of blankets from a closet, extending them out, “Then in the service of politeness, I am Leona, of the Dawn.”

“Is that something you all have?” She helped the woman arrange the blankets in some sort of bedroom equivalent, “Titles?”

“Indeed.”

“How did he end up with ‘War’?”

She paused for a moment, before smiling, “Every story is unique - and to tell our stories is to spread our Voices through the land. Unless he gives you permission directly, I cannot relay his story in any sort of worthy comparison.”

“I suppose . . .” she sat down on the bed, irritated, and Leona gave a soft chuckle.

“You are aware of that sentiment, are you not? It is why your companion knows not why you deny your destiny, nor you know of his.”

“I’m not the Dragonborn.” She pushed, knowing it was beginning to sound petulant, and not caring, “and it’s none of my business what Jarvan’s story is.”

“Indeed,” Leona tilted her head, “why _do_ you deny your own though?”

Shyvana stared up at her, and almost squinted at the warmth emanating. There was definitely magicka involved, but she had no clue how this woman was doing it.

She wanted to shut up, turn her out, and forget about all this.

“What if someone else needed me to be the Dragonborn?” She said instead, “What . . . what if I’ve already had this happen? And I failed.”

“Then maybe the world didn’t need a Dragonborn then,” the equally strong Voice came behind them and Shyvana startled, leaping and reaching for the two gauntlets hanging under her cloak.

The silver haired woman had returned, leaning against the door frame, cold features arched sceptically. Leona actually scowled.

“Diana! This was a _private_ conversation.”

“Then maybe check if I’m around beforehand, sunshine.” She turned to Shyvana, eyes no longer so aggressively silvery-white.

“Diana. I’m the Moon to Leona’s Sun. And I guarantee that ‘Destiny’ can be fickle enough to fuck up like that.”

“What does that mean?” She asked, just keeping the growl out of her voice, but definitely not dropping her defensive position. Diana tilted her head up, gleaming eyes seeing something a lot further away than the ceiling.

“The Dragonborn and the World-Eater - both arrive in Skyrim after it finally falls apart, and inevitably, they’ll clash. Sounds to me like, beforehand, you weren’t in the right place and the right time.”

“Still why me?” she folded her arms, trying not to sound too petulant, “And why only now?”

Leona closed her eyes, “Ever since a dragon was seen at Helgen, countless reports and stories have filled the land. This is no single incident - the Dragon Crisis has begun _now_. How else could a Dragonborn awaken to their power before this?”

Diana folded her arms. “The appearance of the Dragonborn, and the return of the Dragons is no coincidence. Your destiny is bound to them.  No matter what you do, you’ll find - probably already - your path crossing with theirs. Think of it like the cosmos itself conspiring to make you fight these things.”

“As for why you,” Leona seemed to smile with her whole face, all crinkled lips and warm eyes, “I suppose that will be made clear eventually.”

She gave a small groan, “Denying it at this point is just petulance, isn’t it?”

Leona hid a smile. 

“Ever so slightly.”

She entwined her fingers around the ragged ends of her braids, tugging on them and sighing.

“So what? I’ve got to clap my hands together and just _deal_ with all this?”

“You won’t have a choice.” Leona sighed, “Taric might be able to shield your presence, but the dragons _will_ come for you. You can’t run from this.”

She clenched her jaw. Leona’s face twisted.

“I shouldn’t have said that. Come on, Diana. It’s late.”

“Age before beauty, sunshine.”

The two Targonians drew back and retreated into the depths of the corridor.

She curled up on the temporary bed, knees drawn right up to her chest.

Dragonborn, huh?

_“Because of all the bullshit I’ve put up in my life, that’s the one thing I’m drawing line at.”_

She groaned into her palms, kicking off the uncomfortable parts of her armour.

Guess she was going to have to cross that line anyway.

 

* * *

 

She woke up, with hair in her eyes and sweat in her nose.

“. . . Jarvan?”

The Imperial mumbled something, still fairly unconscious beside her, and she wrinkled her nose at the rather vivid remnants of whatever work Pantheon had put him through.

Wiggling so her mouth was right at his ear, she smirked.

“HNNNNNN.”

“GODS ABOVE-!” Jarvan jolted upright, and she grunted as his hand whacked into the side her head, groaning and recoiling as Jarvan kept his hands raised defensively.

“. . . Shyvana?”

“No shit. _Ow_.”

“Did you just _rasp_ in my _ear_?”

“You stunk,” She wrinkled her nose for emphasis, “in fact you still do.”

He blinked, offended, turning to sniff his armpit, face screwing up.

“. . . Hnn.”

“Right?” She scooted around him to slide off, stretching out her back. “So, I guess, it’s off to Ustengrav today.”

Jarvan squinted at her, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, “Why are you so sprightly? We can’t have had more than five hours of sleep.”

“Yeah. So, let’s get going.” She chucked him a bundle of his clothes, strapping her boots on tight. He just clutched the bundle, before slumping back down, face covered.

“Oh. You’re one of _those_ people.”

She responded to that with the tried and true method of kneeing him in the gut.

Over his pained groan, she gave her ratty hair a few hopeless tugs, knotting a couple of braids and just tying the rest back.

“I thought I was done with all of this,” Jarvan grumbled behind her, swinging his legs off the bed and beginning to yank on the - also sweaty - clothes he must have just stripped off before slumping in beside her.

Tossing her horned helmet in one hand, she held out his gloves.  “What? Mornings? Sorry, but they’re going to be around for a while.”

“Waking up early,” he replied pointedly, fastening the last of his layers, giving her a once over,  “and you’re no fine perfume, I’ll have you know.”

“Never said I was.” She flashed her teeth, letting her helmet dangle over her shoulder.  “So? How are getting to Ustengrav?”

He sighed, sitting back, “I’d say just ride a cart back to Whiterun and continue on to Mortal.”

“You okay with that?” She tilted her head, “Morthal’s under Frostguard control.”

He paused for a moment, before shaking his head, “The Frostguard won’t care - and the Thalmor are primarily holed up in Saafingar. We should be fine.”

She blinked and nodded, “Okay then. Think they have breakfast lying around somewhere?”

“Probably,” Jarvan was still watching her, face twisted, “Are . . . are you all right with this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” sensing this going in an unpleasant direction, she turned and began stalking away, “I’m the Dragonborn aren’t I?”

He grumbled, but didn’t comment, they two winding their way back down to the front hall. It was empty of Targonians, and really anything else, save for a small tray covered in some bread and cheese.

They both glanced up as the fourth Targonian appeared from a side passage, smiling. In his extended palm was a pretty rose gem.

“Remember, Ustengrav is located near Morthal, and is likely a target of tomb raiders. Upon your return, use your Voice to activate this gem in Ivarstead - it should save you climbing up a second time.”

“Oh, thank Azura,” she groaned, reaching out for the small thing, “I am not keen on making that climb twice.”

Beside her, Jarvan had stiffened, once more staring at the man.

Shyvana just squinted his way, before turning.

“Where are the others?”

“Elsewhere,” a vague little  smile, and he bowed, “may the lights of the Heavens guide and protect you.”

“I’ll take that as our cue to leave?” Jarvan got out, tone clipped.He smiled once more.

“Do be careful - the Dragons will be tracking your every move.”Right. Yeah. That whole thing.

The doors thudded shut behind them and Shyvana just stared at them, lips pressed together very hard as she gripped her elbows.

Ahhh, she was really doing this.

Actually, really, doing this.

 _Oblivion fuck everything_.

A hand dropped onto her shoulder. Jarvan’s eyes were painfully concerned, trying to get a good look at her expression.

She just stared glumly out, dropping her head onto his hand and letting out a small choked sob. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it be some Nordic hero for the bards to sing about? She was done. With this, with everything. She was just a half-breed abomination that had never known home, she was _nothing more than a monster_ -

“Shyvana,” Jarvan’s voice intruded into her brain as he guided her to sit down on the steps, arms moving around, “it’s okay. We’re in this together. We’ll beat them.”

She almost choked up a laugh, instead slumping against him and digging her fingers into his shirt.

“ . . . I don’t want to do this.” She mumbled, “Someone else can go kill dragons. I don’t want to throw away my life. I don’t want to die. But if we die, then everyone else will and - Oh, gods, what if we _fail_ -?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he shifted back slightly, squeezing her hands, “focus on me. All right? Breathe. Slowly. Out. In.”

She latched onto his voice, even if she felt like her whole body was shuddering with fever, respirations uneven and warbled. Pressure rubbed against the palms of her hands, as he continued to murmur, patiently waiting as her shoulders stopped shaking and her breath stopped stuttering, and the grip she was returning was more hand holding and less finger digging.

“Why am I doing this?” she whispered, “I’m not a hero. I don’t save people.”

Jarvan’s encouragement cracked slightly, mouth twisting.

She bunched her shoulders up, defensive. He knew she was right. She used people. All she cared about was running away.

He kneeled before her, wrapping her hands in his own, scales rough against calluses.

“You saved me,” he spoke, tone soft, “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.  Multiple times over.”

“That’s . . . that’s different.”

“Is it?”

She blinked and looked away from an uncomfortably earnest face.

“Of course. If I hadn’t saved you, I would have felt bad.”

Right now, he looked freezing, the pair of them exposed to the elements outside High Hrothgar, his black hair covered in a permanent layer of snow, eyelids icing together and lips blue. Still he maintained firm eye contact, not once adjusting his cloak, or shifting away from the weather.

She sniffed, sliding her fingers to encircle his wrist, rune alighting. He visibly jumped as her magicka flowed over him as heat, warming his core and returning a bit of colour to his cheeks.

He blinked at her, lips twitching up, and just shaking his head in amazement.

“Really?”

“You looked _cold_!” She protested, and he laughed openly. “You do!”

“I’m just amazed that you’re still worrying about _me_.”

She tried to let out a short laugh, but her stuttering breaths intruded and it devolved into some vaguely hysterical hiccough.

“Oh, come here,” he settled down beside her, arms open for her to wrap herself around, “this is all a bit ridiculous isn’t it?”

“No shit.” She let out another hysterical hiccough and he released a rumbling laugh, the vibrations echoing in his chest. 

They remained there for a probably dangerous amount of time, giving the shivers beginning to affect even her, but Shyvana still took her time to recollect herself, slowly straightening up and letting out a heavy exhale. Jarvan glanced down.

“Ready? That horn’s not unearthing itself.”

She inspected him, long and hard, a weird, full feeling in her chest.

And then she reached out, put her hand behind his head and brought their foreheads together.

“Yeah,” she decided, “I’m ready.”

She got to her feet whilst he was dazed, readjusting her outer layers and preparing for the hike down.

She was so far beyond invested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is DONE  
> Now, why were there cultists? Well, Chaton would like to know that too Brother-who-installed-the-DLC-without-telling-me  
> (I'm still wanted in Ivarstead because of that fight's collateral -__-)
> 
> For a chapter that was half hiking, this was a PAIN. My brain was Not On Board. But now you're finished, out there and I'm actually halfway pleased with it  
> Take that, Chapter 4
> 
> In other news; Pantheon is an arrogant dick, and I kind of love writing him


	5. Blades

The trip to Morthal was more subdued than their previous ride to Ivarstead. There was very little one could do except stare at the scenery for six days, but they had still endeavoured to keep up conversation as they went. Now, as the cart moved along, leaving the sparse land of Whiterun to the more frozen Hjaalmarch, they were veritably subdued. They had barely paused in the Hold Capitol, staying only to find someone willing to drive them deep into Frostguard territory.

They’d been travelling for more than a week, only now a few leagues out from Morthal and Shyvana was sleeping on his legs, in favour of talking or otherwise wiling away the time. His hand was resting absently on her shoulders, scenery blurring various shades of grey as the cart wound its way through the ancient trees stubbornly clinging to the frozen ground.

In his hand, he turned over the small gem the Targonian had given him. His entire experience in the fortress had left a deeply unsettled crawl across his soldiers, memories clinging like mist. He hadn’t entered in the best frame of mind, still shaking off the shadow of Garen that had tried to lure into the snow, and the various Voices within had shaken what was left of him.

As for his companion . . . the Dragonborn.

He felt a small little stone drop into his gut as he looked down. It had been a furious debate for almost four centuries as to where the next Dragonborn would appear, adventurers claiming they had the abilities virtually each year, even if most Cyrodiillians knew the blood of Akatosh had died out with the Septims.

And now the next one had just been thrown onto the same cart destined for execution as he.

He glanced over her, at her shoulders rising and falling evenly, his mouth twisted. Her screams over the writing were still ringing even now. She had brushed him aside, but he wondered if she would have done similarly if she had seen how pale she became, her skin, normally a deep volcanic ash, instead going smokey white, pupils blown wide.

Even in the depths of his delirium, he could recall pieces, and her quiet recitation of the old prophecy had been hanging over him ever since leaving the mountain.

The  _Last_ Dragonborn.

It was long behind them, but he still glanced back, as if he could see the small fortress holding its stubborn ground against the heavens. The spear bearer had prattled on mighty haughty about destiny as he drove Jarvan into the ground, but the gods knew if he’d actually explained anything.

Truthfully, the Targonians themselves had been just shy of his uncanny valley. The memories of their Voices were more prominent than their faces, and he couldn’t even remember whose name was whose, like a fine veil had been hung over their identities. An enchantment? Something else? He rubbed his thumb over her shoulder. She’d removed her armour for comfort, and at this angle he had a clear view of the intricate runes shrouding her upper torso and arms, the distinct warped language of the Daedra leering out at him.

And then he exhaled.

No. The unease he had felt in High Hrothgar wasn’t the same as the Daedra. Something else was at work up there, something inhumane, but not demonic either.

Maybe this mysterious teacher?

He sighed, shifted slightly, feeling his upper legs regain a trace of circulation.Either way, it meant that they should prioritise this horn. He didn’t like the idea of them moving to the whims of unknowns. When they reached Morthal, it might be imperative to gather information. Or maybe they should instead supply and rest? His back _was_ hurting from all the hiking and travelling-

“Your thoughts are loud,” she rumbled, and he froze, blinking down at her.

“Ah . . . forgive me. Did I wake you?”

“Kind of,” she sat up and yawned, a stray trace of hair glued to her mouth, “you started to dig your fingers in.”

He winced as, sure enough, she now had something of a bruise where he had been gripping her.

Exhaling slightly, he shuffled across, giving her more space. “I was just planning our next move.”

“I gathered,” she let her head tip sideways, eyes contracting, “maybe you should try to plan less. You always get so tense.”

“What am I to do, otherwise?” he said, a trace joking.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed, before lightly shrugging.

“Isn’t it bad to explain a joke?” he tried to twist it away and her eyes went narrow.

“Maybe, but you weren’t entirely joking.” She frowned, still a bit sleepy, before reaching to squeeze his hands. “I think you’re fine the way you are.”

He paused before just shaking his head. “But things could always be improved. Made finer, more effective.”

“You sound paranoid,” her response was blunt, and he winced, “maybe you should focus more on who you are now than who you're trying to be later.”

He chuckled softly, turning her hands over in his hands. “Those responsible for my upbringing would argue against that rather strenuously.”

“Then ignore them,” her eyes flashed crimson, “dealing with other people is more trouble than it’s worth.”

He paused at that, inspecting her digits even more closely.

“. . . It is, huh?”

She froze.

“Not you.”

She stared down, slowly strengthening the grip linking their hands.

“I don’t mind with you.”

This time he was expecting the gesture, meeting her forehead with his own. 

And then the driver swore loudly.

They both startled, Jarvan flinching and Shyvana immediately upright, eyes contracting to slits. She let out a sharp growl and, even as he held out a hand to calm her down, his own heart pounded in beat. The forest had opened up to damp river lands, Morthal right in the centre.

And Morthal was burning.

 

Atop the City’s main hall, a red tinted dragon flared its wings, roar echoing over the town, as the people attempted to desperately flee. Shyvana was already yanking out her gauntlets, fire burning in her eyes. Jarvan turned to the aghast driver.

“Head to the capital! Get reinforcements!”

“Sir!”

The driver urged his horses into full gear, tearing off back down the route as they sprinted for the town, eyes on the beast lifting off, fresh blood dripping for its jaws.

“Can you get to its wings, Shyv?!” He called over the increasing roars of the fire, “Bring it down out of town!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll secure the villagers, see if they have archers.”

She didn’t waste time on sentiment, simply nodding and darting away, angling for the flying beast at a speed he wouldn’t match. He instead reached the city limits and grabbed the nearest person he could find.

The fire was next to deafening, the heat overwhelming, and a sickly acrid scent filled the air, but he made sure his message was clear each time he grabbed a terrified arm.

“Head for the river!”

Most of the townsfolk were elderly, children and housewives, the city guards sporting Frostguard colours, and they were all coughing from the smoke.

“Head for the river!”

More than once, he was physically hauling groups to the safety of the water, their legs too weak to carry themselves.

His ears rang as he turned through the flames, spying an elderly woman leading a child no older than four through the crumbling town. Above them, a harsh crack echoed as a falling building splintered.

His voice was barely audible as he lunged at them, and his eyes burnt gold.

His shield barely caught the burning rubble, the impact still knocking all three to ground, but the embers recoiled, safely falling around them. The child was crying in the old lady’s arms as he dragged them both to the feet. 

It took him a moment to realize she was gripping his arms, knuckles white, trying to yell over the fire and past the blood pounding in his head.

“-trapped! Inside more are trapped!”

He nodded sharply. “Get to the river. I’ll help them.”

The houses were being burnt to pieces as he dove in, shoving aside debris to free trapped citizens, the guards latching on to his strategy and leading out the smoke affected ones to the Hjaal River, as the shadow roared past overhead. 

He was helping a mother pull out her two children when a guard appeared at his side.

“We’ve freed all the trapped ones,” he yelled over the din, “but what now?”

Around them, the citizens were all dropping into the relative safety of the water, a few of the adults stabbing away any mud crabs, as the fire could only lick the edge of the salt water.

“How many archers can you muster?”

“Barely any,” another looked haggard, “a whole platoon tried to get them from the guardhouse. They went down when it did.”

He blinked, finally able to place the smell.

Burning flesh.

All over, buildings were charred ruins, and black limbs protruded from the rubble, the horror echoing on the faces of those who had gotten free.

_Just like then_

Smoke filled his lungs and he coughed violently, gasping as his world shifted, terrified Imperials fleeing the Aldmeri war machine, tiny _child_ hands being unearthed from the devastation and he was frozen, _useless_ , too late

“LOOK THERE!”

He was almost aggressively snapped back to reality, stumbling back, as the dragon finally spotted them cowering from the flames, stretching out its wings.

And Shyvana lunged from the top of the clock tower, tackling it midair.

His breath caught, awe amidst the cheers of the crowd, as it roared in surprise, swifting coiling up its wings and rolling in a desperate attempt to shake her loose.

She clung on grimly, one hand sunk deep in through its scales, blood coagulating around it, as she used the other to snap its coiled right wing.

The dragon let out a howl, echoing over the landscape, fire gushing from its mouth in uncontrolled plumes, as the two fell from the sky like a burning comet.

Between the flashes of fire and dragon, he caught her yanking her bloody hand free, sucking in her breath, but it was already slamming into the ground, neck cracking sharply from the fall, spine snapping and bending, Shyvana’s figure hidden by the mangled wings.

“SHYVANA-!”

“Yes?”

He nigh bolted, spinning around, completely off balance, to find Shyvana grinning beside him. In the moment, the wind caught up to her and whistled past him.

He just blinked.

“. . . Whirlwind Sprint?”

“More useful than I thought.”  She gave him a once over, expression growing concerned. “Are you okay?”

His heartbeat quickened, his adrenaline still verging dangerously close to panic, “What?”

“Your gloves.”

He paused, glancing down, to find that his gloves had indeed being turned to blackened threads from his expedition into the fires and sighed internally as he sent her a reassuring glance.

“I’m fine. I can get gloves replaced.”

She pursed her lips before inhaling sharply. Recognizing the expression, Jarvan immediately reached forward, wrapping his arms tight around her as her body spasmed with a harsh gasp.

The citizens, all still rather shell shocked, gathered around them, awed.

The dragon dissolved into gold, the Soul flowing through the air to merge into Shyvana, her magika flaring and consuming the energy.

Her red eyes pulsed, as the Soul overruled Diana’s magika, binding the Word of Power to Shyvana with aggressive pulses of energy.

He waited for her breathing to steady, tilting his head, “All good?”

“Y-yeah,” she shuddered, “gods.”

“Is it true then?” One small girl blinked up, her Breton heritage showing in her round head and huge eyes, “You’re the Dragonborn?”

Shyvana blinked, turning to inspect her, and Jarvan smiled at the flustered edge to her expression, even if the little girl paused a bit at the menacing features.

And then Shyvana’s ears pricked high, her eyes contracted to the tiniest of slits and she slid underwater, dragging Jarvan with her.

He barely had time to take a breath before he was submerged, dragged through the water easily, as she darted through like a spooked fish, bubbles trailing them.

He struggled to regain balance, snatching at the hand dragging him, before inhaling gratefully as they surfaced underneath one of the City’s river-traversing bridges.

Her hand clapped over his mouth and he went rigid, finally spying what her too-sharp senses had picked up earlier.

An entire Frostguard cavalry was advancing on the town, and most of the townspeople were turning to them with cries of relief, a few sending the hidden pair confused glances, but most extending hands to be fished out.

Some of the arriving soldiers didn’t even bother, simply diving into water, wrapping arms around the citizens with all the panic of family. 

Jarvan felt his gut clench and squared his jaw, simply sinking deeper into the shadows of the bridge. 

“Most impressive,” the cold, harsh accent of the Thalmor echoed over the clamour. The jubilation almost sobered, most turning to eye the black cloaked figure now inspecting the scoured dragon bones with faint trepidation. He straightened, smiling, “tell me; the Dragonborn didn’t happen to pass through here, did they?”

The Morthal citizens all exchanged glances, mothers holding the heads of children about to glance at the bridge.

“She was here,” the authoritative voice echoed over the lake, “and now she is gone. And thank the Eight Divines - had we waited for you lot, Morthal would be in ruins, and the Frostguard that our people have gone to fight for would have lost an entire Hold capital.”

Standing proud despite her sodden clothing was the old woman who’d directed Jarvan to the trapped citizens.

Immediately, citizens and soldiers alike were kneeling.

“We came as soon as we heard, Jarl,” a Legate stepped forward, “we were notified by a Whiterun driver. Forgive us for not coming sooner.”

Jarvan resisted the urge to hit the water in frustration, “ _I was sort of implying he should go to Whiterun!_ ” He whispered, irritable and Shyvana sent him a very dry look.

“ _Yeah, and Solitude’s literally across the valley which do you think he went to first, Mr. Bookman?_ ”

They both clammed shut as the Thalmor got to his feet.

The dragon had crashed on the north shore of the lake, and the largest section of open water spread out before it, where most of the citizens were being helped out of, the reinforcements hurrying to put out the fires. As such, the Thalmor was almost an entire city away from them.

They both shrunk back further.

“We shall remain here for now,” the Thalmor declared, “to best help in Morthal’s rebuilding.”

“Of course,” the Jarl’s voice was dry, “though I promise that’s all you’ll encounter here.”

Her voice was loud, clear, and carrying clearly over the whole river.

“After all, the Dragonborn’s probably halfway gone now - all we have here are mushrooms and Ustengrav to the northeast, neither of which are all that interesting.”

The Thalmor smiled between their teeth and Jarvan took that as their cue, nudging Shyvana’s gaze towards the underside of the bridge closest to the far southern shore.

Shyvana waggled her fingers at the small girl still sending her surreptitious glances from her father’s arms, as, with big breaths, they both sank under the water, slipping away into the currents.

 

* * *

 

Ustengrav ended up being a huge well in the ground, sunken into a mountain above Morthal, with nothing in between except for snow covered swampland, fresh mushroom goo now eerily shining off their boot soles, none of which looked appealing when one was dripping, freezing and still travelling too early for a dawn.

Fortunately, stone steps were roughly hewn into the sides, circling down to the bottom of the well, where a couple of limp bandits were prone around strategically placed empty bottles.

Jarvan frowned.

“Hold it,” he caught Shyvana’s arm before she wandered down without any sort of caution, “are they dead?”

“Oh yeah, they reek of blood.” Shyvana just blinked at him, “Better for us, right?”

“I suppose. But how?”

“Probably killed each other.” Before he could reply, she was trotting down the steps, running her hands over the walls, looking for an entrance. He followed, uneasy, crouching down beside the pair. One of them had their throat thinly slit, the other stabbed in the back six times. Neither of them had anything close to a dagger.

“Someone else came through here,” he mumbled, “Be careful-”

“I hear something!” 

Her fist thumped _hard_ against a random part of the wall. With an echoing scratch of stone, two sections of the wall split apart, a torchlit chamber revealed behind. Jarvan glanced up sharply as she vanished inside with a spring to her step.

“Shyv, wait up!” He ducked beneath the stone entrance, jumping as the pieces ground shut behind him, effectively sealing them inside. Ahead of him, the Elf was slowly moving in a circle, taking in their surroundings. It was eerily well made, as if the stones themselves had shifted to create the tunnels and endless corridors spiraling out around them.

(He wondered if they actually had been)

And then he had something else to wonder about as Shyvana’s outer cloak was thrown over the nearest table.

“What in Oblivion are you doing?” He demanded, frowning as she swatted his hand away.

“Look, you want to walk around in ten wet layers, fine, but I actually like my health.” She replied pointedly, unclasping her chest plate, “if those bandits are dead, then I doubt we’re getting interrupted. So, either freeze or strip.”

Before he could reply, the plate, and next two layers of fur vests joined the pile on the floor, her thick skirt soon joining it.

“This is ridiculous,” he pointed out and she just ignored him, peeling off her gloves and extending pulsing warm hands over the clothes. Steam wafted off her skin, the air around them increasing in temperature as she settled down to wait. With a deep groan, he just shook his head and began exploring the surrounding rooms panning out around them. Most were the same delicately hewn stone, stuffed to the brim with dusty potions and books, with one room being entirely filled with suspiciously empty urns.

He lifted up a lid the size of his chest, and squinted in.

The pungent, bitter remnants of embalming fluid besieged him, and he dropped the lid with a gasp, wincing as the lid struck the ground, the shatter ricocheting around him.

“You okay?” Shyvana’s echoed down to him. 

“Fine just, _ah_ , mildly disgusted.”

“Then stop being a prude and come dry off!”

That was a little bit rude and he retraced his steps, indignant.

“I’m not a prude.”

She sent him a very pitying look, cross-legged and half naked beside her entire wardrobe, hands working as very efficient dryers. 

“Maybe not for someone born in the Imperial City,” she flashed him a sympathetic smile, “very much so for the rest of society.”

“Then the rest of society are heathens,” he snorted, unfastening his coat and handing it over with a roll of his eyes. She grinned victoriously as the rest of his waterlogged clothing followed soon after, “stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” she spread out his clothes, so they were well under the heat, before slumping back, head against the wall “. . . you knew what you were doing.”

“Hm?”

“Back in Morthal,” she shifted over so he could drop down beside her, “you knew how to deal with the fire.”

He blinked.

_“Get them to safety!”_ __

_“3rd Battalion, cover south!”_ __

_“They’re retreating fast!”_ __

“Jarvan?”

His heart stuttered and his gaze shot up, to see Shyvana frowning at him, “should I . . . should I not ask about that?”

He just stared at her dumbly, before he blinked sharply and the word suddenly unfroze in a great impact of breath, “Oh, no, no, it’s fine, I just . . .” he exhaled forcefully, trying to steady himself, “do you know what a Scorched Earth policy is in warfare?”

“I don’t know warfare,” she pointed out, “I’ve never really cared about it.”

“It’s a military strategy - to burn everything when you’re retreating so the enemy can’t take advantage of the resources.” His expression curdled, “It’s a signature tactic of the Aldmeri Dominion. They invade and when anyone attempts to repel them, they scour everything they leave behind. Either the invaded waste time rebuilding or are forced to abandon the land and they can reclaim it easily.”

She was watching him very carefully.

“. . . I thought the Aldmeri Dominion weren’t allowed to attack Cyrodiil.”

“Oh, it was ‘just some unauthorized militia’,” heavy cynicism darkened his tone, “I mean, of course it _wasn’t_ , but we couldn’t retaliate because it would piss off Alinor, and Alinor had to prove they were unconnected and it became this huge political stalemate that Father _said_ would be fine, but _it wasn’t_ and-“

“Wait, wait, wait, your Father?” Shyvana frowned, completely lost, “what does he have to do with it? Was he also in the military?”

Jarvan seized up and his throat closed, “Er, no, I mean, _yes_ , he’s military and . . . yeah.”

“. . . yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She tilted her head, but nevertheless backed off, turning her attention back to their drying clothes.

“So stalemate.” her voice was curt, chipped, and very desperate for the topic to change.

He huffed, “I was sent out to secure our borders, which essentially meant ‘stick to protecting the people and don’t retaliate’, whilst the politics was handled,” He inhaled, and the damp smell of the underground offered something to latch onto.

“So I had to just sit there and _wait_ without being able to do anything until our people were already hurt!”

His teeth ground, fists balling in his lap.

_(But he had done something)_

Her gloves were chucked into his lap and he jumped, breath rapid, Shyvana’s warm hands a welcome focus against his shoulders.

She remained silent, waiting, and he took a few steadying breaths, turning to the bundle in his lap. “What’s this for?”

“You need them more than I do,” her hands cracked, and he watched in awe as her veins rippled with magika, burning rivers of fire emerging under her skin and pulsing out from the seams in her hands, “and I smell fear.”

 

She was right, of course. 

Several rooms in, a small pack of robed figures were battling the draugr guards, the conflict moving through tiny storage rooms to expansive halls, stone walkways shaped above them to better navigate the labyrinth.

It was atop such a bridge that the two had snuck up to, crouched above the battle and watching it unfold beneath them.

Shyvana whistled as a draugr went down, only to reanimate in a flash of magic, turning on its comrades. “Necromancers, huh?”

“What are they doing down here?” He shook his head, “Surely there are better tombs.”

“I’d rather know what happened to the bandits out front,” she folded up her legs, resting her head in her hands, “they weren’t killed by necromancers.”

“Hired thugs maybe? To protect the necromancers?” Jarvan tapped his upper lip with a knuckle, “Where’s the one who killed them then?”

She sighed and just peered down. “Hey, can you smell gasoline?”

“No, but I’m just going to assume you’re right, Shyv.”

He received a rather smug smile for that, before she tipped forward, fire dancing through her fingers.

He gripped her wrist, reproachful. “We could just wait for them to kill each other off.”

She shrugged, “And you said you hated waiting.”

Her wrist twisted free and then a ball of fire dripped from her fingers into the conflict below. Jarvan wisely slipped back to the end of the bridge as the ancient gasoline lit, burning both draugr and necromancers, the bottoms licking the bridge as if it were a frying pan. Unsurprisingly Shyvana remained where she was, unbothered by the heat as she observed the cremation beneath her. 

“You’re fire resistance is increasingly annoying,” he mused, purposefully aloud, grinning as she just rolled her eyes.

“Hey, karma owes me some compensation for my existence.” 

“True enough,” standing up, he eyed the dying flames, reaching out for the short coil of rope in his bag. “Hold this for me?”

She caught the end, wrapped it around her fingers and dug her toes into the edge of the bridge as he dropped the length and climbed down. His feet crunched against the charred bones upon touching down, small clouds of ash billowing out around him.

“You certainly cleared them out,” he mused over, toeing one of the necromancer’s corpses. Sure enough, a soul gem pulsed in the embers and he drove the point of the hunting knife into its heart.

As the gem broke with an unearthly shriek, the rest of the rope fell into a coil beside him, Shyvana simply jumping down from the walkway unaided.

“You’re going to break something one day,” he pointed out, cracking another soul gem. She just brushed dust off her legs and stepped out from the crater of cracked stones her impact had left.

“But that day is not today, so who cares?”

Her foot stomped on the last soul gem, the remains of the necromancers’ skeletal summons simply crumbling back into dust. 

After relieving them of their coins, the two descended further, following the lines of torchlight and ornate stone.

Coffins were pressed against the walls, but the lids had fallen open to reveal empty cavities within, all lining the passageway.

“Tomb raiders or dead draugr?” He asked, pausing to examine the edges of one. The cold had done wonders in preserving the stone, but the runes were contorted, an odd blend of Old Nordic and Daedric reducing them to illegible. 

“Since there were draugr above, and a distinct amount of loot, tomb raiders doesn’t seem likely.” Shyvana yawned into her palm, “aside from our bandit-murdering friend. But then where are the skeletons? Draugr don’t dissolve into dust like necromantic summons do.”

They broke off for a moment as the rock changed beside them, the golden hewn walls turning rough and natural, and the tight corridors opening wide into an immense underground cavern, a waterfall streaming down in the eerie blue light of lichen.

Shyvana groaned, “Wonderful. As if this place wasn’t creepy enough.”Jarvan huffed in agreement, as the pair stepped out, following giant natural arches all the way down.

As they skidded off the loose ground, Jarvan let out a short whistle of awe.

“Well, that’s where all the draugr went.”

Spread around them was a veritable sea of draugr, equal to if not greater than those in the Barrow.

And all were dead.

Split apart, sliced in two, decapitated, and otherwise punctured, someone had gone to town and taken a blade to all of them and made their way through like a natural disaster. Shyvana shifted nervously at his side, and he just examined a draugr pinned to the wall by a sword without a guard.

(Several meters high)

“Why were the necromancers alive?” He mumbled, “This person must have been capable of ripping them to shreds.”

“Another entrance, maybe?” Shyvana ran fingers over a severed ribcage, “This is too precise to be a bandit.”

“Maybe more than one person came down.”

“But the attacks seem to be consistent.” She yanked up a skeleton and sniffed it, “could it be magic? Some sort of blade craft?”

She paused, frowning and sniffing harder. He felt his eyes narrow.

“Recognise something?”

“Mostly just death,” her eyebrows were tight enough to be touching, “but there’s something familiar. Gods if I know what it is though.”

“Then let’s keep moving,” he backed up, scanning the walls for the next opening, and upon finding nothing, picking a direction and moving along it, “with our luck, they’ll be waiting for us at the horn.”

She scoffed, tossing the skeleton down very dismissively and following after him.

The silence of the vast cavern only grew more sombre, the emptied crypts around them all just serving to show further scars from the previous intruder.

“Do you think the Targonians set us up?” Shyvana suddenly whispered beside him.

He paused for a step, “What?”

“I mean, this place is meant to be sacred to them right? Surely they can just wave their hands and all the draugr go down. They might have even made the whole lot suicide themselves.”

“But why would they send us down here as a set up if they were just going to kill all the draugr themselves?” he replied pointedly.

She thought about it for a moment.

“Spring cleaning?”

“Then what part is the set up?”

“I don’t know . . . umm do you know where we’re going?”

He paused and blinked back at her. “I mean I am looking.”A single very unimpressed eyebrow rose up in response and he folded his arms. “Well, where do you think we should go? This place is huge.”

She loosened up at that, humming slightly, and scanning, pupils dilating and contracting rather dynamically in the uneven lighting.

And then she brightened, pointing in a random direction, void of fluorescent mushrooms.

“Let’s try there.”

“What-?”

She hurried off before he could finish and he cut himself off, brow flickering. “Shyv, where are you going?”

“There’s something written over here!”

“How can you see that!? It is completely dark over here.”

Shyvana paused, glancing back sharply and then looking in her new direction, wilting slightly.

He tensed. “What?”

“No, it’s just . . . come with me.” she caught his wrist and dragged him forward.

Sure enough, a small mural was pressed into the corner, a veritable hole dug out beside it. Shyvana moved over to the mural fingers sliding off his wrist to trail against the carved stone.

“You can’t see this, can you?” she mumbled and he blinked, looking over the stone, unease.

“Um . . . I can see the mural-“

“But you can’t see _this,_ ” she grabbed his finger and moved it to drag along very specific lines, “Feim- _urgh_.” 

She doubled over and he swore violently catching her as the entire mural lit up a vivid blue. The old letters lit up, energy streaming into her and he flinched at her long drawn out scream.

(Just like up in High Hrothgar)

She writhed in his grip and he could only hold on, voice low and hushing.

(Just like)

It stopped in just a few seconds, the thrashing giving way to quiet shudders, long ebony fingers digging hard enough into his arms that they’d gone a rather unhealthy tone of grey.

“I  _hate_ dragons,” she grumbled, and he let out a small relieved huff, “I _really really_ hate dragons.”

“Come on,” he unwound his arms, but kept their hands linked, “let’s go.”

She nodded, straightening up and stretching out her back with a crack.

“I’m sleeping for a week after this.” She announced, as they ducked into the small path.

“I’ll sleep with you,” he agreed fervently.

(Sleeping for a week sounded _perfect_ )

They followed the path down to an immense portcullis and Jarvan backed up as Shyvana crouched down, wrapping her fists around the bars.

He did let out a small noise of awe as her feet broke the ground beneath from pressure alone, knees shaking from strain, yet the portcullis didn’t budge.

“Stupid . . . Iceborn . . . ruins!” Her voice was drawn with effort and Jarvan snickered.

“I’ll look for a lever or something.”

He was almost proud at how quickly he spotted the stick protruding from a ledge about two meters in the air, crouched in the shadow of a lantern. 

Looping the end of his rope, he tested the weight for a moment, before tossing it up. The rope flickered dangerously close to the lantern, but nevertheless fell onto the lever, yanking down surprisingly easily.

With the click of machinery, he spun to see three boulders lifting out from the ground, without the usual grind of old stone and dust. He ran his hand over the nearest one.

“No dust?”

He jumped as it lit up red, just for Shyvana to shriek in delight.

“Ha! I knew I could - there’s _more_?!”

He turned in confusion at that, moving away from the stone. In that moment, the red faded and Shyvana swore, stumbling back as the portcullis slammed back down, inches from slicing off her leg.

“Are you fucking with me?” She demanded, kicking it irritably. She took a step back and, experimentally, Jarvan returned his hand to the boulder. 

Once more, the red pulsed through the carvings and the portcullis slid up smoothly.

Shyvana just squinted at it, offended.

“How many?” He caught her attention, eyeing the three boulders. She sent the one raised one a very suspicious look as she moved under it.

“. . . Three, in total.”

“Okay, so I’ll touch these three . . .” he reached the second one by stretching out his leg, before pursing his lips at the third one, a full arm span away, “hm.”

“Yeah, the third’s one still down.”

“Any chance of squeezing through to a deactivation switch?”

“No way, I can barely see anything. You hold the second and third,” she came up beside him. “I’ll try this one.”

He backed up obligingly, watching quite doubtfully as she put a foot against the boulder, muscles bunching. The third portcullis went up.

She took off at a full sprint, and Jarvan almost whistled.

But the first was already coming down and she ground herself to a halt, once more glaring at the shut gate.

“Could you try to stand on the other side of the boulder?”  
“Maybe, but then I’ll have to spin to face it properly and will lose time anyway.”

They both stared for a moment, before Jarvan blinked.

“Do you think you have enough stamina to attempt the whirlwind sprint again?” He asked, as she returned to the boulders.

She blinked, and her eyes sparkled.

“Shout time?”

“Shout time.”

They reshuffled, Jarvan holding the two back ones active as Shyvana positioned herself with a direct line to the portcullises, ensuring she was still being registered by the third boulder.

All three rose.

This Shout was different to the last one. He’d barely heard it through the blizzard atop High Hrothgar’s courtyard, but whereas her favorite one seemed to echo through the land, this one vanished in a slip, her form veritably flashing from beside him to across the portcullises. He dropped his position, moving forward and trying to squint through.

“Hey, you all good?”

“Yep! Give me a second!” A fire lit up the other side, her form half blocked by the twisting corridor. She shifted around for a bit, before there was a distinctive click, and the three ground up.

He hurried through anyway.

“So, our bandit killer figured out the boulders, but wasn’t kind enough to leave the path open.”

“Then there must be more than one.” He mused, “We kind of cheated out way through there.”

“Isn’t this guy, like, ‘the First Person to know the Way of the Voice’?” She waved her hands, voice lilting in disdain, “Maybe you were meant to know how to do that.”

“I suppose.”

The twisting path went down a fair way, before suddenly levelling out, still twisting but the ground had been flattened and well-tiled.

They both stared down.

“That’s trapped, isn’t it?” Jarvan drawled and she nodded.

“Almost certainly. Hold this.”

She kicked off her boot in an arc and he snatched it, before it flung forward into the tiles. As such, he couldn’t stop her from stepping out and confidently placing her foot on the first tile.

The ground beneath them rang with the sound of activated machinery, there was an oily chugging sound, and a spurt of flame promptly engulfed her bare foot.

Jarvan’s heart attack was thankfully averted as she lifted it out of the jet, skin unscathed. Without the pressure, the flame went away in a neat snap.

Jarvan just slowly mapped out the long winding route ahead of them, with a deep sigh.

“This is going to take a while, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” Shyvana began undoing her other boot, “I’ll walk across, you on my back-”

“Neither your clothes, nor I, are fire resistant, my dear, that’s not going to work.”

She grumbled, inspecting him, “I could lift you above my head?”

“That’s one step too emasculating.”

She laughed properly at that, as he crouched down, gazing over the surface.

“How about those thicker ones? Do you think those could be traps?”

She paused, following his pointing finger. “Maybe? It looks more like part of the wall.”

“Could you get me over to where they start?” 

“Without carrying you?” her eyes glittered and he regretted everything as she reached forward and dug her fingers into his hips, “I can manage.”

He barely got out a yelp as he was sent flying over over the tiles, grunting as his chest plate and helmet took the full brunt of the wall.

“You okay?”

“I have been better,” he rolled up with a ground, nevertheless shifting his feet back further onto the safe rock, even as he sent her a sour look. She just grinned challengingly, backed up and leapt cleanly across with all the agility and strength that the race of Men wish they could possess.

“Are you proud of yourself?” he asked and she grinned.

“Very much.”

He refused her beaming offer to be chucked the rest of the way, simply picking his way over the safe stones, all the way up to the end of the path.

A few spiders lay dead, their legs cut off and brains skewered, an abandoned broadsword beside it, coated tip to guard in cleared away spiderwebs. Shyvana held out the handle between two fingers and frowned.

“It’s the same smell as before, but it’s faint. Like they never touched it-oof!”

Jarvan wrapped his arms around her waist whilst she was distracted and lifted her up easily, before frowning and abandoning all his courtly upbringing in a single sentence.

“Seriously? Aren’t elves meant to be feather-light?”

“Why this?”

“I want to reassure myself that I can toss you around too.”

She winked at him. “I’m a buff feather.”

He dropped her with a huff, brushed some wall dust off his shoulders and joined her at the end of the path.

Together, they heaved open the door awaiting them.

Jarvan’s breath caught.

Here, it was clear where the water was destined, pouring in from two pipes to fill the chamber, a small stone bridge linking their side to the other end of the hall. Atop the far end, an immense pedestal rested atop a dais, shining with unnatural light.

“You think that’s it?” he whispered, tone almost reverent in the underground hall. Shyvana just chewed on her lip, stepping down towards the bridge.

She’d barely placed a foot down on the stone before flinching inwards with a gasp and Jarvan’s awe vanished.

“Shyv! What . . . _what_?”

Golden light, the same otherworldly light of a dragon’s soul, had begun shining out from her chest, stark against her skin, and vivid where it pushed through her veins, before fading away just as quickly.

The immense hall rumbled and they both moved, backs going together as Jarvan held up a protective arm around Shyvana. The immense pipes closed up and the water flow stopped, yet the water remained disturbed, rippling and foaming as _something_ began to rise from underneath.

“Oh wow.” Shyvana loosened up slightly, voice almost light from awe.

Four immense pillars rose out from the water, flanking the bridge two-by-two, carved into the gaping maws of dragons.

They shuddered for one final moment, bowing over the path, before the whole chamber fell silent, still and waiting.

Jarvan moved first, letting his arm fall even if he kept it stiff, “I think we’re good now.”

Shyvana nodded, “I’ll get the horn.”

She ducked out from behind him, moving over the bridge as quickly as possible in the direction of the shrine.Jarvan slowly followed, turning as walked to eye the immense feats of architecture.

He moved closer to the edge, toes hanging over water, marvelling as his hand ran along the runes carved into one.

These things had to be Centuries old, but they were eerily flawless, preserved from the passage of time in a way that definitely screamed Old Magic.

And then he heard her snarl.

Jolting upright, he spun, seeking out his companion, standing over the pedestal, trembling.

“Was it trapped?” Panic raced through him, sprinting over, “Shyv, are you okay?”

She whipped around, almost knocking him flat in the process. 

“It’s  _gone_ ,” she growled, shoving a note in his face, “ _read_!”

The paper trembled before him, her rage shaking her limbs, and he carefully took it, reaching out a hand for her to grip.

He blinked.

Neat script covered the letter, written in Tamrielic and he cleared his throat.

 

[We need to speak urgently, Dragonborn.

Rent a room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I’ll meet you.

The Blade Dancer.]

 

“Blade Dancer?” Shyvana echoed, “What the hell’s that?”

“Potentially our friend who cleared out the draugr,” he moved a hand to her shoulder, “hey, it’s fine, all right? I don’t mind going back to Riverwood.”

“I  _know_ , but it’s just _infuriating_!” She exhaled, pressing her fingers into her tempers, “Climb a mountain! Loot a tomb! Rent a room! I feel like a blind dog, dragged around by a leash and I _hate_ it.”

He laughed slightly. “No. You certainly don’t take well to a leash.”

He kept his hand where it was, rubbing soothing circles against her back.

She blinked up at him, before dragging fingers over her face and groaning. “Well then, I guess it’s time to crawl all the way back up. And then head all the way back down to Riverwood. Gods below.”

“Not necessarily,” he moved around the pedestal, hands tracing over the back wall, “our Blade Dancer friend got in here somehow - Aha!”

He dragged the lever down with a distinct ‘clunk’, stepping back as a stone panel slid up in a cloud of dust. Shyvana gave a small scoff behind him. He merely arched an eyebrow and extended his elbow. She scowled, before sticking her chin and taking it. They padded through the damp tiles, a curving path guiding them ahead, before a second lever revealed an exit right into the urn room, the disgusting scent from the opened one now filling the whole space.

“Well, fancy that.” He remarked and she even laughed slightly, all sharp teeth and flickering eyes. 

(“Hmm, do you think those soldiers are still in Morthal?” He pondered pleasantly and then she let out an immense groan.)

Leaving Ustengrav felt vaguely underwhelming, a daring Sun managing to peek between the clouds above them, mild rain drizzling down, barely enough to pool at the bottom of the well, so they were only slightly damped as they clambered up the stone steps, the sun determinedly poking through the noon clouds.

After a couple of days hiking northeast, they stumbled into Dawnstar, found a cart driver and began the week long trip all the way down to the small village.

 

Jarvan was woken by Shyvana’s shifting, the dawn sun so much more vivid down here than up in the Pale, even enough to pierce his attempts to return to sleep.“Get up,” she nudged him none-too-gently, “we’re just coming up to it now.”

He groaned, dragged the sleep from his eyes and glanced up around her.

The water wheel chugged merrily, the village lively at this time of day and overall free of any dragon damage.

A small well of fondness rumbled up in his chest, and Shyvana’s hypothetical tail was wagging she was so energised.

“It’s been three weeks since we last came here,” he mused letting his head flop back, “gods, we’ve been doing too much travelling. We should invest in some horses you know. Stop having to route around looking for cities. It would be so much quicker.”

“I prefer carts,” she responded airily, the brisk evasive tones that indicated her good mood and her determination to not let anything Jarvan observed to intervene.

He just huffed, non-challenging, as their ride pulled up.

(Horses would also be saving a lot of money, his wallet pointed out, as he handed over the driver’s due coin)

He gave a quick thanks, and hurried after his companion, already flinging open the doors to the inn.

The morning crowd paused a bit, taking them in, and then the innkeeper perked up.

“Ahh, Miss Elf!”

The dam cracked, as the whole village gathered in the hall immediately animated, coming up to them, demanding attention and stories of the past three weeks

(Did they really go to Whiterun?  Was there really a dragon? What was Jarl Ashe like?)

Lucian in particular muscled his way through to give Jarvan an appreciative squeeze, reassuring him that yes, the claw they’d left with the Warmother had made it safely back, and now sat in pride of place on the Trader’s bench.

“I think I’m going to need a drink,” Shyvana whispered into his ear, a veritable entourage all demanding why she hadn’t mentioned the whole Dragonborn thing last time.

Lucian laughed, turning to the innkeeper.

“What do you say, Senna? How sounds a bit of a party?”

The innkeeper laughed, cheeks bright, as she beamed at him, “I reckon I can get the taps flowing.”

The excited clamour became a veritable row, word going out, and all the villagers piling in, gathering around the pair to listen to their exploits, immense mugs of mead passing generously between all hands.

Jarvan was nursing his fourth tankard, Shyvana half-animatedly retelling their experience with the Morthal dragon for the second time, and half-furiously eating a whole roasted goat leg, with his head resting against her shoulder and a warm sigh on his lips.

A bard had gotten up sometime, tunes warbling but jaunty, as the various villagers all began messily dancing in partners, drunken stumbles happening as often as not, wolf-whistles sounding through as Camilla none-too-subtly shoved her brother over to dance with the innkeeper.

His back hurt from travel, his eyes were lowered with strong alcohol, and he was slowly starting to lose sensation in his lips. Beside him, Shyvana laughed loudly as a man, completely smashed, trying to woo one of the support pillars and just waltzed straight into it, her cheeks flushed deep purple from the alcohol.

He mumbled between numb legs, pressing up against her, and she obliged him, arm going up so he could lean on her more completely, rough wooden edge of the tankard still pressed up against his lips as her warm arm fell back around him, habitual, easy contact.

The food was flowing, and the innkeeper slammed open a new barrel to the cheers of the crowd and Jarvan laughed as Shyvana joined in, voice high and abnormally carefree. He held out his tankard along with all the rest, foam coasting over the rim as they all toasted in various states of abandoned sobriety, downing the drink in quick gulps-

 

Jarvan clawed his way up off the pillow, head _pounding_ , memory blacker than he would like and mouth tasting acrid.

Shyvana gave a rumble as he swayed half-upright, still pressed up against his side, drooling on their pillow.

The room was completely dark as he half-heartedly scavenged for his shirt, and the night sky beyond the closest window affirmed to him that the party had lasted them the entire day.

He gently unwound Shyvana’s fingers from where they were hooked around his undershirt, sourcing out a jug of water and taking an appreciative swig. Alcohol was a thing (but not really) in courtly festivities - the sort of events where one nurses a glass or two of fine wine over the period of multiple hours. Drunken acts shamed one rather than entertaining the rest, so one always had to monitor their intake, frequent enough to loosen up one’s social cues, whilst not tipping over into regrettable behaviour.

During his training in the army, there had been many a night that his fellow trainees had headed out to the nearest tavern, but he’d always excused himself, further studies to be done in the palace under the watchful eyes of his tutors.

To put things simply, this was the first time he had experienced a post-drinking headache and gods above spare him, it _sucked_.

He continued swigging the jug until about half was gone, mentally noting to thank whoever had left it there. In the bed, Shyvana was starting to wake up, hair more tousled than ever, deep agonised groans muffled against the pillow.

He dropped the jug close to her head, sourced the three necessary layers to simply exist in Skyrim, and left her to cope with her own dehydration and brain spearing.

He stretched out his back with a few audible cracks as he descended into the main hall of the Riverwood Inn, blinking to find it completely vacant, save for the few last drunken souls and Irelia running a cleaning cloth over one of the long tables.

“I’m surprised this place is intact,” he mused, and she smiled at the ground.

“That might seem rowdy to you, but it’s fairly standard in this country. I’m used to it by now.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Sleeping off hangovers, I believe,” the maid gave him a slight smile, before abruptly shutting up, dipping her head so that the hair angled over her eyes.

Shyvana dropped down behind him fairly soon after, chin landing on his shoulder.

“Yeah, wish I could do that.”He wrinkled his nose as the sharp smell of her breath wafted right at him.

“Ugh, you smell like a distillery!” He shoved her off and she just laughed. 

“You’re not much better, Jay.”

“I at least did not drink anywhere near as much as you did,” he responded, prodding her nose, “besides, with everyone passed out, it’s a good opportunity for us.”

He turned back to the maid, as Shyvana groaned, nevertheless straightening up as Jarvan folded his arms over the bar counter.

“Hey, could you show us where Room 2-A is?”

“2-A?” the girl looked up, confused and Jarvan nodded, “I . . . I don’t know.  I’d rather wait for Madam Senna to get back-”

“We promise we won’t make a mess.” Jarvan smiled and the Bosmer girl stewed for a moment, before sighing.

“Very well - but please keep it on the quiet.”

Ditching the cleaning rag, she led them them upstairs to the first door on the right, entering and holding the door open. It was a nicely sized room, empty of guests at the moment, yet still with enough furniture and lamps to feel cozy.

“Well, here it is?” She led them in, her in front and Shyvana behind, slightly baffled, “Room 2-A?”

Behind the two women, Jarvan toed the door shut.

Irelia blinked, before turning back as Shyvana folded her arms. In an instant, her eyes contracted to their argonian-like slits, shining with power.

“So how about you give us the horn now?”

Irelia startled, just staring at them for the moment, “H-Horn?”

“The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller,” Shyvana responded sharply, “the one you nicked from its tomb.”

For a moment, he thought the maid was going to faint.

And then her fingers steepled together and her posture straightened to eerily perfect. Her eyes glinted out, unhidden, and full of cold steel.

“Well, well, well, how impressive. When you both showed up this morning, I thought you’d completely misunderstood. It was genuinely quite a problem.”Her voice was calm, authoritative and cynical, and despite her being a notable head shorter than Shyvana, Jarvan still stiffened at the feeling of power switching.

Irelia’s gaze brokered no pause. “How _did_ you figure it out?”

“You were there,” Shyvana stated simply, “in Whiterun. You were the one who had asked Braum to retrieve the Drgonstone. You left before we could see your face but I recognised your scent when we got here. The same one in Ustengrav.”

“How quaint,” her gaze was completely unimpressed, “a member of my order would have identified me the first time we spoke. If I had been a Thalmor agent, I could have easily slit your throats whilst you recovered in Helgen that night.”

Jarvan immediately frowned. “What do you have to do with the Thalmor?”

“No connections, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know,” her eyes flickered over, lips thin, “my goal had been to simply remove the tyrants from their machinations in Skyrim. With the advent of dragons, well, this task has become all the more urgent.”

Jarvan squinted at her, something buried in the far depths of his memory echoed - a tale, not lesson, taught by his family’s Seneschal. He gave a small noise of surprise, leaning back against the wall, “. . . You’re one of the Blades, aren’t you?”

“It isn’t _that_ hard to figure out,” she dismissed, “if this is your collective intelligence, then Tamriel is more doomed than I first thought.”

Shyvana immediately bristled, growling, but Jarvan gripped her shoulder.

“What do you mean by ‘Tamriel’?”

“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” She drawled, “The Thalmors desire the whole world - they aren’t content with their little islands and conquered lands. They’re planning to use the dragons to bring this whole world to its knees.”

“The Thalmors are?” he just responded, vaguely disbelieving.

She sent them both skeptical looks, “Indeed. And all we have in our corner is a Dragonborn who barely knows what that word means.”

Jarvan’s hackles rose, protective, but this time it was Shyvana who shook her head, eyes narrow.

“So, what do you want ‘the Dragonborn’ to do then?”

Irelia’s eyes glittered. 

“Come with me.”

She glided between them, movements completely controlled and serene, and they both parted for her, unspoken, as she led them back downstairs. Instead of pausing in the main hall, she continued around the counter, lifting up a trapdoor to reveal a small staircase leading down.

“My own room. I’m sure you’ll find it informative.”

Shyvana sent her companion a questioning look as they crouched down. After a moment, he nodded. Lithely, she leapt through, hands up to catch him as he followed behind. Irelia dropped in behind them and snapped her fingers.

Lights lit up the basement cellar, revealing a truly phenomenal array of weaponry contained within, a table holding an immense map of Skyrim, countless pins and markings scattered over it. A bed was crammed against the corner, though the entire thing was littered top to bottom in old texts, manuscripts and missives. The Bosmer flitted to stand beside the map, halting underneath an elaborate three-pronged crest hung in pride of place against the wall. Her finger hovered around Whiterun.

“You are correct - I am the one who sought the Dragonstone. Yet I am not a native of Skyrim, so had to ask Braum to translate it for me. It was necessary to confirm my suspicions.”

“Suspicions of what?” he asked, voice clipped and she sniffed, running her finger over various marked pins in the map.

“Helgen. Whiterun’s watchtower. Morthal.” she moved further, “Falkreath, Winterhold. All places dragons have been seen. And that’s just in the cities. I have reports coming in daily of sightings in the mountains, amidst the snow. The dragons are back and in force. Yet they are not _coming_ per se - they are returning from Oblivion.”

They both straightened and Jarvan felt his heart flip.

“What do you mean ‘return’?”

(He could take a rough guess)

“The Dragonstone in an ancient map,” she pointed out a set of dark blue pins, aligned with the various sightings, “of the tombs of dragons who fought alongside the World-Eater in the Dragon War centuries ago.”

“They’re being resurrected,” Shyvana breathed and Irelia nodded.

“Do you think it a coincidence that the first dragon appeared in Helgen? Right as the warmother was about to be executed?” She pressed, “If they’d won there, the Frostguard would have easily won the war. And the Thalmor know that once she had that, the current Lissandra would strip them of all their influence. No, they need the chaos of a civil war to seep their poison into this country.”

Jarvan swore.

“Is that even possible? Resurrecting and controlling dragons?”

“It is.” Shyvana spoke, voice weary, but completely certain. “Without a doubt.”

They both stared at her, but she just thinned her lips and looked away.

Irelia let out a small cynical huff.

“It goes without saying that they need to be stopped. The World-Eater and her army was defeated in the past - supposedly there is an artefact here that still contains records of the event. Should we find it, we’ll gain an irreplaceable edge.”

“And what’s the catch?” Shyvana demanded, watching as Irelia ran a finger over the map.

“The catch’, I suppose, is that I do not know where it is - the Blades have maintained the histories of the world, so of course when the tyrants invaded Valenwood, my teachers were their primary targets.”Her fist clenched and anger cut her face.

“Right now, the Blades are scattered - we have no power to advise about dragons, and should we reveal ourselves to handle it personally, the Thalmors would have us cut down.”

“So we’re at a dead end?” Jarvan sighed, “we don’t know how to kill something that the Thalmors are planning to use to destroy the world.”

His fingers had drifted over Skyrim’s southern border, the one it shared with Cyrodiil, and his stomach churned uncomfortably.

Irelia cleared her throat.

“Not quite. One of the most experienced Blades is supposedly alive and well in Skyrim - he would know where this record is.”

“. .. . But?”

Irelia scowled, “Supposedly, he murdered a fellow Blade and left Valenwood to find redemption - he survived the Aldmeri Invasion, but is completely underground as a result. And the Thalmors are positively beside themselves in their efforts to find him.”

“What is it that you want us to do, exactly, Irelia of the Blades?” Shyvana demanded, stepping back and folding her arms.

The Bosmer folded her own and met Shyvana’s burning gaze with her own steel.

“His name is Yasuo. Find him before the Thalmors do and bring him to me. _Then_ I will hand over the horn, and you can go and listen to those heavenly hippies, whilst I deal with the actual danger. My own movement is limited, otherwise I would go with you.”

Jarvan coughed, “I’m sorry, but the Aldmeri Invasion of Valenwood ended _nine years ago_ , and you want us to just find someone who has been successfully in hiding ever since? _With_ other people looking?”

“Oh don’t worry,” she smiled, a warm, caring and utterly insincere smile, “I have a plan.”

 

* * *

 

Windhelm was a frigid, bleak and altogether rather unwelcoming city. Clinging to the eastern coast of Skyrim, it was one of the hold capitals that remained permanently encrusted in ice and snow, the figures scurrying through the weaving cobblestone streets constantly bundled in their thickest furs. The oldest of the ‘Old Holds’ it was no surprise this unforgiving city was the heart of Skyrim’s traditionalists.

“Commander Crownguard?”

Garen straightened up from his vigil, turning back, hand on his sword. Standing at the door to the balcony was the Warmother’s housecarl, a shaman named Udyr, shoulders and head shrouded in a bear’s jaw, eyes bright and shifting.

He exhaled slightly.

“She is ready to see me?”

The shaman nodded curtly, turning on his heel and prowling back into the significantly warmer keep. Garen kept his grip on his weapon as he followed, through to the expansive stone coffer that was Windhelm’s throne room. Carpets and tapestries did their best to keep in heat, but all individuals within where still clad in decently thick furs. Atop the throne, Sejuani herself was lounging on the skin of a polar bear, her one horned helmet on even when receiving her soldiers. Most of the Winter’s Claw parted for the Imperial coming through, their expressions unwelcoming but begrudging towards the man.

“Thank you Udyr.” her deep voice rumbled through the whole, “take three commanders and plan for the assault on Fort Neugrad. I will meet with you after this.”

Garen found himself pinned with the housecarl’s wary gaze, before he headed off, and Garen returned his attention to the warmother, offering a half-bow, “Once again, I thank you deeply for offering temporary lodgings to my men. I am aware that resources are scarce during war.”

“Because of the Dauntless Vanguard’s intervention at Helgen, I and many of my most trusted advisors were spared execution.” Sejuani’s eyes were cold, “It is not the Nord way to ignore such a debt, even one made unintentionally. How goes your search? We have received several responses to our own queries, but they have all led to dead ends.”

Garen felt his jaw clench. “Nothing . . . yet. We are planning to start pressing slightly more west-”

“And when you will be satisfied?” she cut through, “many trustworthy warriors saw a burning house collapse on your prince. He almost certainly perished in that hellfire.”

At that, Garen felt more than his jaw clench, a burning, heavy pain in his chest that constantly threatened to break all of his strength, his spirit.

“I am aware the chances are low.” he replied, voice quiet, “But there should have been some sort of remains in the ashes of Helgen. Until I have proven beyond doubt that my Prince is dead, myself and the Vanguard will continue our search.”  
“We have posters up across all of the Winter’s Claw territories. Even my traitor sister Ashe had agreed to keep an eye out, and yet we have discovered nothing substantial. And forgive me, but I doubt a Lightshield would venture into Frostguard territory.”  
Garen refrained from biting his cheek, “For now, I simply ask that we be permitted to continue utilising Windhelm as our base encampment.”

“Of course,” then she reclined, eyes sharp, “both Cyrodiil and Skyrim have suffered greatly at the hands of the Thalmor. There is solidarity in that.”

He felt a small scoff build in his throat, “Might I be hearing the point of your summons here?”

She barked a laugh at that, leaning forwards, fists clenched over the arms of her throne.

“Then I’ll be clear - ally with the Winter’s Claw.” her gaze was deadly serious. “Expel the Thalmors and their puppet witches from Skyrim. With the North secured, it will a simple matter to turn the Lizards’ and Grey Faces’ grievances towards the bastards. Elswyr and Valenwood would be easily persuaded to stand beside us.”

“You would have the whole mainland invade the Summerset Isles,” Garen just shook his head, “Cyrodiil is bound by the Concordat - we cannot enact aggressive-”

“Even when the Thalmors murdered your Prince?” Sejuani’s voice was hard and urgent, “You are a man bound by duty and rules - but what good are rules when they harm your people? The Concordat is nothing but an excuse for the Thalmors to take control of all of Tamriel. Cyrodiil has been fostering its strength for almost a Century since - it stands nothing to gain from adhering to it.”

“We stand to maintain security and order within our own Kingdom,” Garen replied, ever so mildly terse, “to break the Concordat and engage in open warfare would put all that at risk - only His Majesty can make such a call.”

“And if his son _has_ died because of the Concordat,” Sejuani was almost smug, “don’t you think he’ll make it anyway?”

Garen’s visage remained a chiseled marble brick, free of emotion, “Either way, it is not within _my_ authority to confide in you.  With that, please excuse me. I would continue my search.”

He bowed once more before turning and striding out from the throne room.

Sejuani’s voice echoed behind him.

“You have a little sister, do you not?”

He went _rigid_.

The Warmother’s eyes were cold and cynical, “The Thalmors would subjugate the whole world in order to validate their ideals of ‘strength’, and a Concordat isn’t going to stop _them_. You have already lost one person you care about - maybe you should consider what other _losses_ might occur from your idleness.”

He watched her with a gaze just shy of tipping over to a darkened storm, before it cleared, he bowed politely and marched out of the keep, heavy doors slamming shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chaton: League has enough characters to not need OCs  
> Skyrim's ensemble: Hold my Beer
> 
> Also, Whirlwind Sprint is definitely Flash, that's just How It Is.
> 
> My laptop broke down and I had to have it in for repairs which is why this chapter was also two weeks after instead of a week, but I'm committing to having the next chapter out next week! (I am definitely going to regret that but WHO CARES)(NOT ME)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos/commented \^o^/


	6. Dealings

Shyvana shifted uncomfortably in place, hunched over her ankles, and armour digging uncomfortably into her gut.

Spread out before her, the Thalmor Embassy rose up like its own sun, built above Solitude to shine down upon it, carriages and escorts of people prancing into the open gates.

She was several seconds away from screaming out in frustration when her nose pricked, and she glanced back sharply.

She smelt iron . . . but not Jarvan.

Huh.

Her body was twisted almost ninety degrees as she squinted into the forests, her attention so entirely captured that she completely missed the approaching footsteps.

“Hey,” she jolted slighted, glancing back as Jarvan appeared at her shoulder, surprised to have caught her off guard, “everything okay?”

“. . . Yeah.”He arched an eyebrow, but merely dropped down beside her, most of his dragon bone armour removed for the sake of stealth, “any changes?”

“I wish.” she let her chin thunk against her fist, “why are we even wasting all this time? Irelia’s plan sort of depended on there _not_ being ten million guests milling around.”

“I contacted her through a mirror, and she says we’ll just have to improvise.”

Shyvana huffed, “Her contact?”

“He’s still there, but he’s throwing in the towel after tonight. It’s gotten too dangerous for him.”

“Gods below,” she shifted sideways to give him room to crouch down beside her, once more futilely scanning the masses entering below, “do you think we could force our way in?”

“Doubt it.”

“Even with that thing?”

Jarvan froze at her pointed tone. In his hands was a partitioned lance, made from Valenwood steel. Irelia had taken one look at his bow and retrieved the thing from gods knew where.

He sighed, and she returned her gaze to his face.

“The Blades are masters of combat - a weapon recommended by then will fit its wielder as if tailored.” his hands were running reverently along the edge, so carefully and precise he had to have practice, “But even a master can’t fit off every Thalmor in Solitude.”

“And most of the Frostguard by the looks of it.” Shyvana sighed, dropping back onto her heels. “Maybe an upper storey window? We could slip in-”

“And how would we reach the contact if we did that?” he cut through dryly and she let out an immense groan.

“Urgh, could the universe try not to mess with us for _once_?”

He patted her shoulder in consolation, “Come on. I think I saw a way over the back fence - maybe we can just look for a secret room if we can’t reach the contact.”

“Why are we doing this?” she nevertheless got to her feet, cracking out her neck, which had stiffened from her almost four hour vigil, “Couldn’t Irelia slip in?”

“She said it herself, she’s too conspicuous,” they pair began working their way back out the brush, “and things would get worse for us if Skyrim learnt we were working with a Blade. She’s the last person who should be in Solitude.”

“Jarvan,  _we’re_ probably some of the last two people who should be seen in Solitude.” she pointed out. “Irelia’s plan involved no one being here, not every single eye in the Frostguard ready to pick out two runaway convicts, one who happens to be the _Dragonborn_.”

“Trust me, I know,” he closed his eyes thinking, “It wouldn’t be great for my face to be seen here either.”

“What-?”

A branch flicked back into place.

Shyvana froze, hand snapping out to catch Jarvan’s chest, ears pricked.

Jarvan mirrored her, eyes shifting to the sky. “Is it a dragon?”

“No . . . smaller,” she sniffed again, and her eyes flashed through the darkness, “metallic.”

Something flickered.

She stepped backwards, arm throwing Jarvan along with her, as a knife flew out from the darkness, sinking into a tree in place of their heads. There was the sound of feet before her, but she jumped as they suddenly shifted to behind, forcing her to lunge sideways to avoid the next blade.

Jarvan, still sprawled, was squinting at the knife.

“That’s . . .”

“Into the open, now!” she demanded, catching his wrist and dragging him. She didn’t wait for him to catch his footing, simply weaving frantically through the dense trees with enough speed that their ambusher couldn’t keep up. Solitude was decently North and the forests were that in more name than actuality, so it was an easy matter to find an area where the trunks were thin, the moon lighting up their surroundings.

Their backs moved together, weapons bared, Jarvan’s breathing heavy in the silence, Shyvana’s minute growling audible against it.

Watching them from the edges of the trees, was a silhouette clad in unmistakeable black and red leather. Shyvana reacted immediately, sending a ball of fire soaring towards the assassin, but their assailant simply used the enhanced light and shadow to vanish.

“Shyv, I need light!”

“On it,” she slammed her palms together and drove them into the ground. Fire raced from her fingers across the grounds, encircling them and lighting up the clearing. Jarvan’s lance reflected the firelight, the weighty thing resting easy and ready in his grip.

They split easily as the daggers came flying at their blind spots, knocking them away in a clash of sparks, the assassin’s shape lit up ghoulishly by the firelight. Their figure was small and lithe, though the androgynous leathers and face mask hid everything else. The figure paused, tensing and Shyvana prepared herself.

Jarvan stepped back.

“Watch above!”

The figure leapt high, daggers soaring down above them. They danced apart, and Shyvana dug her heels in and lunged through the air. The assassin flipped, yanking out a considerably larger dagger to redirect her gauntlets, the contact sending shrieks of metal echoing over the crackles of fire, before the assassin landed a boot solidly into her gut and she grunted as she was sent back first into the nearest tree.

“Shyv!” Jarvan ducked as the trunk broke clean in two, the dead branches crashing down near him. Shyvana just groaned, before ducking her head as a knife sailed clean over it, thunking behind her. Jarvan bared his lance protectively as she regathered herself, the assassin darting forward, a large dagger in each hand.

And then the air seemed to open up and she jumped right through, vanishing. Shyvana blinked in shock, as Jarvan cursed beside her.

“What did she just-?”

Jarvan caught the blow directed at their backs, Shyvana twisting in surprise, as the assassin flipped back, once more dropping through space, this time above them. They caught the attack together, and Jarvan growled, entire body tense, as they sent her flying. The assassin merely let sail a new dagger, falling through air to appear beside it, momentum now bringing her towards them. Jarvan deflected the blow up, Shyvana going in to strike, but the assassin vanished beneath her fingertips and they both glanced up at the deflected one. Shyvana’s ears pricked and she twisted to see the figure instead extending from the back.

Something hot and heavy flowed through her as she twisted her feet.

**_“FUS RO!”_ **

The assassin wasn’t expecting it. Jarvan wasn’t either, honestly, almost getting blasted back as collateral before she caught his shirt in her fist. The Shout tore apart their surroundings, blasting the fires away to embers and yanking the assassin straight through the ground, roots tearing up against their body, daggers scattered.

Shyvana bared her teeth, feral triumph roaring strong, and Jarvan’s fingers dug into her arm.

In his defence, he didn’t flinch as she rounded on him in her full draconic fury.

“We need to go _now_.” he instead demanded, tugging her arm.

“I can take a member of the Brotherhood!” she snarled, riled up with indignation. Jarvan fervently shook her head.

“Not this one, please! Our priority should be getting into that party.”

“Jarvan-”

“DON’T SAY IT!” his hand slammed over her mouth, head darting, panicked, to where the assassin’s momentum had finally broken.

All that remained was the end of a newly torn up bit of dirt and they stilled, glancing around in the silence. Without the fire, the moon remained their only light, the entire battlefield aglow in silver.

Jarvan exhaled, “ _Shit_.”

“Well what do you know?” they both locked onto the aristocratic accent, and out from the shadows came the strutting assassin, wickedly long daggers at her belt and a throwing knife flicking over her fingers, “You really are alive.”

Beside her, Jarvan stiffened slightly.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He muttered, tone long suffering.

In a single deft movement, the assassin sheathed her throwing knife and flicked off her hood. The pale gold features, the sharp cheekbones, the unfurling long ears, all of the usual High Elf beauty was positively paltry next to the crimson locks unfurling around her face and back. A single scar perfectly marred her left eye.

Jarvan bared his lance at her.

“What does the Black Hand want with us?”

She just kept walking up to them, until she was close enough to place a finger on the blade’s tip, which she soon did, wobbling it back and forth.

“So touchy - I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so much as scowl, Jarvan.”

Shyvana’s hair rose against her neck, bringing up her gauntlets with a snarl.

The assassin sent a cursory once over. “Ah yes - I suppose that confirms the feral beast here must be the Dark Elf Dragonborn. Every Nord must be rolling in their beds at such a thought.”

“Cut the pleasantries,” Jarvan redrew her attention in a snap of her head, rather fortuitously, because Shyvana was feelings the inklings of _murder_ under the gaze, “either fight us or back off.”

“Why should I?” she shrugged, “neither of us benefits from either action.”

“What-?”

“Now, if it’s getting into that old rag’s party . . .” she leaned forward, elbows pressing on top of the lance, “well, isn’t that a nicer deal we could arrange.”

“You can get us inside?” Shyvana felt her stance lighten, eyes widening in surprise. The assassin flicked her unnecessarily vibrant hair with a toss of the head, and she winced at the scent of Darkness and Death that the action incurred.

“I have informants, and loyalists inside. It shouldn’t be any problem. You can waltz right in, enjoy the drink, do your business, and then scurry off with none the wiser.”

“So what’s in it for you?” Jarvan growled, entire body still dangerously rigid, “the General doesn’t work cheap.”

Ever so slightly, her cheek hollowed out, “Father is no longer . . . no longer _in charge_. _I’_ m in control of the Brotherhood.”

“That doesn’t change my question, Katarina,” Jarvan responded, irritated, and she twisted to stare at him in surprise.

The assassin looked sour. “My brother picked a pocket his grubby fingers should have left well alone. I heard that a member of the Thieves Guild is in attendance, but if I rock up, I guarantee that the old bastard hosting this whole pow-wow will positively skewer himself trying to mosey up to me, and my target will stay well clear. I get you into the party, you get them a few drinks in, and you get me his location. That’s the deal I’m offering.”

“And if we get in and can’t get his location?” Shyvana frowned, “Thieves have tighter lips then priests.”

The assassin flipped her throwing knife, “Then I’ll set up your Black Sacrament personally.”

“Then we’ll find our own way in,” Jarvan reached out to pull his companion back, “leave now-“

“Do you know which member of the Guild is in attendance?” Shyvana interrupted, now properly thinking it over.

They both turned to stare at her, the assassin raising her eyebrow and Jarvan alarmed.

“Shyv, we can’t trust her-”

“They’re prosperous enough to get into this sort of event,” Katarina spoke over him, “but not enough to be recognised as part of the Guild.”

“One of their contacts then . . . or maybe a patron . . .” Shyvana gave the assassin a hard look, “I’ve done work for the Guild. I should be able to recognise them. You can definitely get us in?”

“It would be a walk in the park,” she smiled with all her perfect Altmer teeth.

Jarvan grabbed her shoulders and spun her to stare straight into his face.

“Shyv, why are you going along with this?”

“Her contact leaves tonight, remember?” she pointed out, seeing the harsh reality sucker punch her companion in the nose, “we get in tonight, or we’re fucked. This could at least work.”

“Excellent!” Katarina clapped her hands painfully slow, “I love those sorts of situations.”

Jarvan stared, conflicted between the pair, before his shoulders slumped.

“. . . Fine.”

 

Katarina’s plan was, surprisingly, rather straight forward.After directing them to some cover near the main entrance, she vanished over the wall, returning with two sets of clothing.

“You’ll sneak in as part of the scenery,” she grinned, kicking open a chest for them to put their equipment in, “perfectly incognito.”

“We’ll need our stuff,” Jarvan pointed out, sourly removing his greaves. She waved a nonchalant hand.

“Yes, yes, I’ll stash it in the back storage. Just look for a chest with a nightshade etched on the side.”

“And you’re well aware that you’re providing us with the tools to essentially murder the whole embassy.”

“Indeed, because firstly, if _I_ can’t kill everyone in there, neither can you. Secondly, good riddance if a few of them go missing in the snow. No one’s going to miss that bunch of rabid ass-kissers.”

“Hey, question,” Shyvana, meanwhile, was examining her bundle with increasing irritation, “what’s this?”

She shook at the plain smock, and held up the accompanying apron.

Katarina just snickered, “You’re a Dark Elf, darling. You’re not getting anywhere in there except as a servant.”

Her face heated up and a growl built up in her throat, before pausing as a hand dropped onto her head, Jarvan ruffling her hair.

He sent her a quick smile, before extending his own considerably fancier garments. “What about me? I don’t think Alinor’s Most Wanted should just waltz in the front door.”

“Sweet Mother, you’re both as bad as Cass,” she fished out a pulsing ring from some pocket gods only knew where, “wear this. It shields your identity and makes the masses perceive you as a different race. People in on it can tell though, so don’t go blabbing.”

Jarvan caught it lightly, mouth twisting in doubt. Shyvana just yanked on the unflattering fabric bundle, hissing as her feet were exposed to the elements in the brief switch from furred boots to thin slippers.

Beside her, Jarvan was pulling on the finer clothes with surprising familiarity, lacing up stays and buttons with the ease of practice.

That was none of her business.

He slipped on the ring and she immediately felt a small migraine appear as she squinted at him, resisting the influences of the ring, even as his blue eyes did seem greener, and his skin seemed less pale.

Katarina stepped back admiring her handiwork.

“Oh yes. This’ll do. Now, this is the important part - Dragonborn, go in the back door and find a servant called Brelas. Tell her the Black Hand sent you and she should let you into the party as part of the wait staff. Jarvan, you’ll get in with this,” she flicked him an invitation, “and track down some dick named Erikur. He should be socially oblivious enough to make for a distraction. And remember, no leaving until you find out where my stupid brother is~!”

She hauled up the trunk, sent them one final smirk, before dropping through reality in a single blink.

Shyvana just squinted, “That takes getting used to.”

Jarvan hummed concomitantly beside her and she turned, hands on hips.

“All right, what’s the story? How does she know you and why do you hate her?”

“I don’t _hate_ her, it’s just . . .” he sighed, avoiding her eyes, “the Brotherhood _used_ to be independent, but for years it’s been under the control of the Du Couteau family. They’re _old blood_ , as in when-Alinor-was-still-a-monarchy old. After the Thalmor coup, their less than savoury connections meant they were either spared or straight up unable to be purged. As a child, I would see her every now and then, but circumstances meant we were doomed to dislike each other.”

“Why did you see her as a kid?” she poked, and Jarvan immediately froze up, a sharp panicked gaze flashing over to her then away.

She just sighed, “Whatever. Let’s just find this contact and get out of here.”

“And get a secret out of a thief.”

“And get a secret out of a thief.” Shyvana groaned and pressed a thumb into her temple, “Gods below, it’s getting to the point that I’d _rather_ fight a dragon.”

He snorted at that, reaching to place a hand on her head. “You be careful.”

“You too.”Under impulse, she reached out and wrapped her arms firm around his chest.

And then she was off, darting through the shadows before he could react.

 

Brelas, though at first unwelcoming, clammed up fast at the mention of the Black Hand, positively hurling a tray of drinks into her hand and guiding her in the direction of the main hall.

By the time she had yanked a few stray twigs out of her hair, and wasn’t tipping the tray with every second step, the party was in full swing.

Or rather, ‘full swing’.

She emerged into an open banquet hall, carved pillars surrounding a hearth, expensive rugs and tapestries lining the walls. Every single one of the guests dripped with finery, a blend of Thalmors and Frostguards exclusively, with a few Bsomer and Dunmer for staff and not an Orc, Khajit or Argonian in sight.Considering the size of the fireplace, nearly every person in the room was wearing about five too many layers, and the amount of gems garnishing their fingers would overfill a thief’s wet dream. There was mead and wine pouring freely, sweet cakes tinier than a tooth arranged on the sideboard and a large platter of meats set up in the back. A small quartet was playing something dainty and pretty, without a single lyric to distract from the ceaseless chatter of Skyrim’s most powerful.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t sport Jarvan, and her rising desire to return to Riverwood for a much rowdier, and far more enjoyable, evening, was crushed by fierce anxiety.

No. No. He could take care of himself, she didn’t have to watch over him twenty-four/seven (she really did).

She could just . . . wait. Observe. Avoid growling at anyone asking for a drink.

She was reminded of her actual purpose being here in the time it took for a fantastically well-built woman to stride out from the stream of incoming guests, ocean burnt skin alive with tattoos and dreadlocks swinging as she clasped Oram’s hand.

The host himself was a painfully thin, gangly Elf, his normal golden features faded to dirt from the cold, and his eyes too sharp to be hiding anything but cruelty.

He welcomed the mighty guest politely, before moving on and Shyvana felt a small seed of triumph.

A member of the Buhru Tribe. That looked like a tie to the Guild if she’d ever seen one.

She was just about to make her way over when someone tapped her shoulder.

“Gods-!”

She startled, almost dropping the tray of drinks, spinning around and trying to mould her face from its offended scowl

“You’re going to scare them all,” the middle-aged man said, faintly amused and she squinted.

“. . . I really don’t like that ring.”

The round features and shining green eyes of a Breton were gazing out at her, and she swore he had shrunk to her height - whilst wearing heeled boots. Jarvan let out a growl in the back of his throat, even as he made a show of picking a drink.

“I’m actually quite liking it. I thought they caught me at the door, but they just welcomed me in without a query.”

“And where have you been in the meantime?” she hissed through nearly closed lips. He nodded to the doors.

“There’s five odd rooms before this, and people are all crowded in there, catching up, and getting drunk, before entering into the real party.”

“You mean this boring lot?” she glanced around derisively and he snickered.

“You’d be surprised to know this sort of thing is considered high class and cultured.”

“Then ‘high class’ means tasteless,” she shoved him a non-alcoholic drink, the two dipping into the shadows a column, “I think I have our link to the Guild, but no other luck. Have you found anyone else?”

“No sign of this Erikur guy, but I did find her friend.” He subtly moved, indicating a small kitchen window behind the food trays. Standing behind it, pouring drinks, was a youthful looking Altmer, oddly black hair braided well out of sight and shadowing his eyes. “Unfortunately, he won’t do anything for us until that guy’s distracted.” Jarvan nodded at the host, in the midst of regaling some sort of anti-Talos raid he’d overseen. “He seems pleasant.”

“A really welcoming guy,” she rolled her eyes, “so what part of his unnecessarily large estate are we wrecking?”

“Eh, it’s not that big,” he responded, giving the room a somewhat condescending glance, and she just hummed, looking around the vaulted hall.

“Reign it in there, Imperial Elite. My question stands.”

He gave her the look of Imperial Disdain, before glancing around, “We’re looking for _something_ – unless we get our contact’s information, we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“Urgh, why couldn’t it just be-” at the sight of the approaching host, she clammed up, Jarvan glancing at her confused, before he straightened up his posture and his expression curdled into the same austere, upper class disdain of the other guests.

“Good evening, Lord Arkhan Val-Lokan,” she almost burst into laughter as Jarvan altered his Tamrielic into a surprisingly good High Rock accent, “a veritable honour to be invited.”

“I am sure. But forgive me, I don’t seem to recall your face.”

There was a sharp edge there, and Jarvan didn’t falter, simply slapping his forehead dramatically.

“Eight Divines! Of course, of course, how rude of me! Jay Brighthammer, my Lord. I’m from the Giopara Guild. I was invited by the Frostguard to inspect some of the Dwemer materials found beneath Solitude. I should have introduced myself to your esteemed self upon arrival!”

“Oh, that’s not necessary at all,” the Elf responded grandly, veritably basking in the praise, “I am a regular visitor to the Guild council – after all, there is no greater riches than knowledge.”

“Far better to die and leave a legacy, then live and leave nothing.” Jarvan recited the old High Rock proverb without flaw, expression unfaltering.

She’d bet good coin he’d done something like this before, and often too.

It had done the job. Oram was completely appeased, now sending her a dark glance.

She dropped her gaze before he could spy the fire in them.

“Might I ask why you’re over here alone in the corner? This girl isn’t pestering you I hope.”

“Not at all,” Jarvan’s response was a bit too quick to ignore and he instead just gestured to the drinks, “but, a desk is not replacement for a social life. I’ve just been needing a bit of liquid courage to come introduce myself.”

“Nonsense! I will gladly do so myself! Come!”

Jarvan sent her a frantic look as he was whisked away, and she simply gestured for him to play it cool.

 Alone once more, she let out a small sigh. Now what?In the centre of the most bejewelled crowd, Jarvan seemed to be right at home, conversation flowing as much from his mouth as from the others, guests leaning in to talk to him with animated expressions.

So that was fine. She, one the other hand, was a little bit on the stuck side. In these sorts of situations, her skill sets had never been particularly relevant. But no, they were on a time frame here - she had to do something.

Maybe she could walk around, examine the guests, potentially even find this Erikur guy . . .

“A pity about Erikur,” Jarvan’s voice echoed, deliberately loud, “a party’s no fun if you have to leave drunk.”

She groaned internally, slinking against the wall. Well shit. Now what? Did Katarina have some other brilliant distraction?

Then again, she realised glumly, the man getting drunk probably had been the distraction. They’d just come in too late.

Now what? Now what?

Her head hurt. She wasn’t used to these sorts of situations, where one wrong word could have her and Jarvan dangling in cages with slit throats and vocal chords ripped out. She liked her fighting, and she hated her talking.

A small chuckle caught her attention. The Buhru woman was watching the comings and goings, her eyes bright and fingers free.

Oh, this was a gambit. But hey, the Lady of the Night liked that sort of thing, right?

She swallowed, and dropped a coin into one of the drinks, sent a quick prayer to her father’s soul for luck, and marched over.

“Ma’am?” she held out the cup trying to be as unassuming as possible. For a rather awkward moment she just stood there, hand extended, eyes down, silence from the Priestess.

And then a warm chuckle.

“And I thought all the staff were scared of me.” The woman took a swig, before blinking at the clink of coin against her teeth.

Shyvana resisted the urge to smile.

“A tithe for the Bearded Lady,” she whispered, voice low under the crowds.

The woman inspected the coin for a moment, before the warmth turned into a sly sparkle.

“And what advice do you want from the Lady of Darkness?”

Her voice, too, dropped low, amused and inviting.

Shyvana glanced over at Oram deliberately, “A way forward. And a location.”

The Priestess inclined her head, listening.

Shyvana swallowed.

“I need a distraction. And, if possible, I need to know where to find Talon Du Couteau.”

The priestess humphed at the name, rolling her eyes.

“A distraction, I am not against. As far that rat . . .” her eyes glittered, “let’s make a deal, little Dark Elf. Inside this building, is a man named Pyke. I was going to find him myself, but if I am to be a distraction, I need someone else to do it for me. Free him, and I’ll tell you about that arrogant little assassin.”

“And free the Breton?” she pushed her luck, sending Jarvan a meaningful glance.

The priestess rumbled a laugh, “Ah, yes, you two did seem connected. Stand ready, Dark Elf.”

She finished her drink and immediately animated, striding out from her spot at the rim, directly towards the main hub of conversation.

“You there!” she called, pointing to a Frostguard Guest, in the midst of talking. “I thought I recognised your voice!”

The man froze.

“L-L-L-L-Lady Illaoi?!”

“Ten good caskets of honey mead!” she proclaimed jovially, reaching the group. As one hand flew out, the other shoved aside Jarvan, who stumbled back, surprised. Shyvana, passing by, caught his sleeve and dragged him away.

“A mighty tithe as fitting of Nagakouros! Yet they all mysteriously vanished! As things tend to in Riften, I will concede, but you are aware of the importance these tithes have to my people, and to _all_ seafarers, do you not?”

The man looked white. Oram was sending him a murderous gaze.

Shyvana snorted into her palm.

Ah, the power of the Buhru clan.

“Shyv, what’s going on?”

“I got our distraction,” she responded, smug, “and a means to getting the brother’s location.”

A hand dropped down to ruffle her hair.

“Well, aren’t you unstoppable?”

“Haha. You looked pretty masterful out there yourself. Have you been to something like before?”

The man stilled for a moment, “Something like it.”

“Like- there he is!” the last bit was hissed, as she spied the Altmer peering around the bartop at the row now going on in the centre of the hall, the Altmer host red with outrage and embarrassment as the poor Frostguard failed to escape.

“Distracting enough?” Jarvan asked, and the bartender slid his gaze over to them. A smile twisted his face, as he kicked open the bar door.

“Enough.”

He was sharp faced, as most Altmer were, the kind of features that could be so easily twisted by cruelty. His braid genuinely trailed around his feet, his robe folded carefully to hide his entire left arm, shoulder and neck.

His smile turned even snider as he gave them both once overs.

“Well, doesn’t the hope of Tamriel look great in servants wear.”

“Please tell me you’re not like her.” Shyvana just growled, allowing her eyes to flash slightly.

He grinned.

“Pretty much the same. However, I’m not self-righteous, so I’m infinitely more pleasant company. Come through here.” He led them through to the servants halls, a bunch of tiny corridors that spiralled between the main rooms, “Head out to the back garden. Near the far wall, Oram has his Solarium. It’s a total hoax – the top rooms are ornamental. Find a stairwell hidden behind one of the cupboards, and it will lead you down to his torture hall. All the information he’s compiled on Yasuo should be in his dossier – he doesn’t remove it from the place. Have fun. Try not to die.” He shut the door behind them, and they were plunged into darkness, the sounds of the party now distant.

Shyvana sighed and sparked a fire in her fingers. “Let’s just find the chest.”

Jarvan rumbled a laugh, and the pair began pacing through the corridors, opening the various storage rooms lining the corridors. Several times they ducked inside, servants passing through with various drinks and platters of food.

Katarina had stashed their belongings in the wine cellar, the small nondescript box crammed under several wine crates. The nightshade was barely visible, but dark enough to stand out under the light of Shyvana’s fire. Careful not to make a sound, they began working it free.

Jarvan winced as bottles rattled together.

“Could she have put it in a slightly _less_ treacherous hiding spot?”

“Quit your moaning,” Shyvana dragged it out, flipping it open and yanking off the servant’s wear with an appreciate rumble, “Gods below, that was humiliating.”

“At least you didn’t have to invent an entire life on the spot,” they moved to help clip each other’s chest plates shut, Shyvana kicking on her boots as Jarvan fastened his spiked pauldrons. His lance felt wonderfully familiar as he clipped it to his back, Shyvana clipping his bow to her own, and simply gripping her gauntlets.

“You ready for this?” Jarvan struck a torch alight, holding open the door.

Shyvana slammed her gauntlets together and sparks flew.

Oh yeah.

 

They made fantastic progress through the rest of the mansion. Exiting out into the backrooms, the guards were taken out before they’d even realised there were intruders. As Jarvan busied himself stuffing the corpses into a chest, Shyvana patrolled the back windows, eyeing the garden, alight with torches and guards.

“We can navigate around on the estate wall, but they’re going to see us,” she called down, “is there any sort of decoy we could make?”

“Not likely,” he sent his bow a contemplative look, “could we take out the ones who’ll see?”

“Maybe, but they’re low – the others will find their corpses.”

“Then we’ll just have to be quick.”

She obliged him, tossing the weapon over. As he strung it up, she pushed opened the back gate, eyeing the small walkway and the stairs leading to it.

As Jarvan let the first arrow fly, she struck forwards, shattering the skull of the guard on the steps and nonchalantly tossing his body into the nearest shrubbery. Another arrow, another muffled thud in the snow. He came up behind her, footsteps light.

“We good?”

She glanced around, seeing no one atop the walkway.

“Let’s go.”

They darted off, crouched low, yet moving fast, Jarvan brushing the snow behind them to hide the footsteps.

Near the back of the wall, a small two levelled room loomed, guards at all doors.  She grinned in anticipation, but a hand caught her and yanked her back. Jarvan picked up a loose stone, eyed the garden, and hurled it.

The sound rang out, and several feet hurried through towards the lamppost.

“H-hey! He’s dead!”

“What?”

“This one too!”

“Stay here,” the solarium guard warned his partner, striding off towards the huge gathering of guards.

And Shyvana lightly dropped down onto the lone remainder, snapping his neck.

Fishing out the solarium key, she clicked open the door, Jarvan clambering down from the wall, and the pair headed in.

Carefully shutting and locking the door, once inside, Shyvana pocketed the key and inspected the ‘small’ room. A stair case led up to the proper solarium on the second floor, the first mainly taken up by chests and blossoming plants.

Unspoken, they both moved, cracking open cupboards and shifting the furniture.

Shyvana was contemplating tipping one over, when Jarvan grunted, and the sound of a rattling lock echoed to her ears.

She wandered over, curious.

“Found it?”

“Probably,” Jarvan backed off from the heavy-duty padlock, “can you break it?”

Shyvana inspected the thing, reaching out to turn it over in her hands, “Maybe. But I think there’s an alarm built-in.”

“Of course there is.”

“Hey! Maybe this one works?” she fished out the key and tried inserting it. Halfway through, the key jammed and stuck fast. Jarvan sighed as she yanked it out with a growl.

“I guess that would be too easy.”

“Hey! Who the hell are you guys?”

Standing above them, near the entrance to the solarium room, was a ticked off Thalmor, a ring of keys swinging from his belt.

Shyvana grinned. “And maybe it will be.”

“You’re both staying right there,” the Elf conjured ice to his fingers, “I’m going to contact-”

Shyvana grabbed Jarvan around the chest and hurled him up.

The Elf shrieked, stumbling back and dodging just out of reach of Jarvan’s lance strike.

He wasn’t expecting the sections to go further.

The partitioned bits split open, and the tip punctured the man’s centre, Jarvan cutting him down with a quick slash of the weapon, recoiling it together in a twist of the hilt.

“She was right, you do know how to use that thing,” Shyvana called up, eagerly catching the keys he tossed down to her. He looked smug.

“Get ready, you’re about to see a whole new level of combat skill.”

“What, other than sit in a bush and take pot shots at unsuspecting guards?” she sniffed the padlock, and began comparing the scent to the various keys, “Seems to be working well enough.”

“Are you _smelling_ the right key?”

“Maybe so,” she picked out the right one and slid it in smoothly. A sharp clunk echoed and she cracked it open chipperly, tossing the padlock aside and flinging open the doors. A single staircase lay within, leading down.

Jarvan bowed, “Ladies first?”

“Really? Off you go then,” she grinned, “You’re much more ladylike than I am, with your big parties and social skills.”

He cuffed her head, but went through anyway, rolling his eyes as he did so.

The stairs circled down for a way, before coming to a thick, metal hatch.

They both shifted, Jarvan pressing up against the small passage as Shyvana positioned her hands on it.

“Can you hear anyone underneath?” he whispered, and she paused, taking a moment to listen.

“. . . I think we’re good?”

Without waiting for his reply, she gripped tight and cranked the hatch open. Expecting the creak, she let out a small hum as it swung smoothly open, not one bit of rust. Jarvan grimaced, running his hand along the hinges.

“Well used, huh?”

She took a deep breath, edged around the rim and lithely jumped through.

Her foots thudded painstakingly loud against the small wooden platform beneath, but it was empty, nothing but a small antechamber leading to a room beyond.

“Shyv?”

“We’re good” she made space as he dropped down after her, “let’s keep it open in case we have to make a run for it.”

“Please don’t say that,” nevertheless, Jarvan kept his lance on hand as they padded down, emerging onto a small balcony, overseeing a mess of cages and benches, some bloodstained, others covered in meticulously organised documents.

“There’s no one down there. Come on.”

Jarvan led the way down the stairs, freezing a step at the smell of human suffering. Shyvana batted right past him.

“Okay, which one of you is Pyke?” she demanded, the lines of emaciated prisoners all gazing up at her frightfully.

“Right here,” the dark voice growled right at the back, “and tell your Master that he still ain’t getting one drop.”

They advanced through the rows and Jarvan blanched.

“Oh gods, he’s missing his jaw.”

“I’m not here as some Thalmor grunt,” she reached out and melted the cage’s hinges clean off, “I’m just upholding my end of a deal.”

In the cage, the man just tilted his head, inspecting her, and refraining from blinking.

As pointed out by Jarvan, he was indeed missing his lower jaw, his tongue hanging loose and eyes sunken without eyelids. One foot ended in a bloody stump and countless lashes crisscrossed his body.

“Done staring?”

“You look awful.”

“Ptuh,” he spat, “amateurs didn’t even take my hands. A thief can live with a peg leg.”

She snapped his manacles apart, turning at the distinct clicking beside her.

Jarvan looked over, from where he was picking the locks of some of the other cages, face flush. “. . . What?”

“We just need him.”

“We’re not leaving the rest of them!” He snapped back, voice oddly hot and she straightened slightly. As he unlocked the half-sobbing, half-stunned prisoners, his hands shook violently, face white.

Ah.

Maybe she shouldn’t have brought him down here.

“What you staring at, girlie?” Pyke hobbled next to her and she wrinkled her nose pointedly. He just sneered with his remaining teeth, hopping out with both hands against the cage.

“So, what’s in it for you?” he asked, snide, “which of my fellow rats are you helping?”

“Illaoi, in exchange for the location of a Brotherhood assassin and a fugitive named Yasuo.”

Pyke merely squinted at her, his bald scalp red and raw in the torchlight, “You’re after that bloody Bosmer too?”

She paused, blinked and then just tilted her head in question.

Pyke jutted his chin towards the desks, “These rotting Thalmor haven’t shut up about him for weeks. Think he’s holed up somewhere in the Ratway so they chained me up trying to spill. Not once did I though – the depths don’t tell no-”

“Excellent,” she cut him off, glancing around, “did they happen to compile it in a-?”

“In a dossier,” he tapped a drawer, “treats it like the Queen’s Jewels.”

Jarvan was completely occupied with the others, so she just skirted around, aware of the thief stalking her shoulder, to fish through for the bound volume.

“That one. I recognise it.” He pointed it out for her, and she just flipped through, immediately scowling.

“Right. I can’t read.”

“Get your summer hearted boy to do it for you,” Pyke was still perusing the drawers, pocketing anything valuable.

She paused, “What’s this thing?”

She held up a dagger that really wanted to be a harpoon, buried under several other considerably cheaper weapons.

Pyke swiped it.

“That’s mine, girlie.” He fingered the toothed blade, upper lips pulled upwards, “As for your in-demand friend, you’ll find out in Riften, won’t you?”

“Wait, Yasuo _is_ in Riften?”

Pyke just sneered, “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But that’s another matter – you held up your deal. You cuttin’ me loose in exchange for that little Altmer runt? He’s in the Ragged Flagon, under lock and key.”

She blinked, drawing back. “Isn’t that . . . risky?”

The thief spat, “Assassins are good in the shadows, but they couldn’t get through a decent lock if they tried.”

“Duly noted,” they both surveyed the various unfortunate souls spread over the room, “these people aren’t going to sneak out through the solarium.”

“Don’t need to,” Pyke padded over, running his fingers over the ground, much more experienced than she. After only a brief moment, he paused, and shoved the tip of his dagger down, yanking up part of the floor.

“Here’s the tunnel they dump the bodies – it will take live ones just as well.”

“If we go down that way, we’re just as likely to encounter something used to eating dead bodies.” Jarvan responded, stern, voice ever so slightly strained.

Shyvana arched an eyebrow, “You all good?”

He glanced over, lips thin, “. . . I’m fine. You got the dossier?”

She held it up with a crooked grin, “We’re off to Riften. Feel free to double check.”

One of the other prisoners stumbled to their feet.

“Guards usually come through,” she mumbled around swollen lips, “I’d rather go down-”

On cue, loud swearing echoed from upstairs, no doubt at finding the various corpses they’d left in their wake.

Jarvan swore.

“Fine. Everyone, down through the trap door, now.”

“Oo, Tough Guy,” Pyke drawled in her ear and she suppressed the snort.

Jarvan turned to her, eyebrows drawing together, “Shyv, can you take point?”

She shrugged out her shoulders, “We could just kill the guards, but whatever-”

A guard crashed down the stairs and Jarvan cursed, reaching for his discarded lance.

The Thalmor hit the ground hard, as a harpoon went straight into his neck.

Pyke retrieved his weapon in a graceful lunge, running the edge over the corpse’s face.

“Oh yes, I remember you.”

“You have _one_ leg,” Jarvan observed in disbelief and Pyke just sent him a right bored look.

“How has a tight ass like you not been killed-?”

“Hey, I need you alive to prevent Illaoi feeding me to the Bearded Lady.” She interrupted pointedly, “ _C’mon_ , Jay.”

Both men sent each other very judgemental looks, and then Jarvan dropped down, Pyke after him. Oram burst into the torture chamber just in time for her to flip him the bird and flip down after them, melting the metal to the surrounding rock to secure it shut.

Summoning a decent enough fire, she led the way out through the caverns. Her feet crunched hard against half eaten corpses, bones crumpling to dust beneath her and if she hadn’t just left a torture hall, the smell might have been repulsive.

Jarvan’s hand sought out her shoulder.

“We should get moving. They’ll bust through soon enough.”Around them, the emaciated prisoners were all shifting together, faces white as they looked over the mangled bodies. Pyke finished fastening his harpoon as a makeshift peg leg.

“Lights off, girlie,” he rasped, “we’ll slip away faster in the dark.”

“Not everyone here is a Guild member,” Jarvan’s hand tensed on her own, “it’s too dangerous.”

She sighed, before foraging around for a spare torch. Passing the fire in her hands onto the tip, she handed it over.

“We’ll go ahead in the dark,” she wedged her way into the brewing argument, “you stay with the more sightless ones, Jay.”

Jarvan stared at her, before stonily taking the torch, and heading to the back of the group, light held close to the ground.

Pyke sent her a sly look.

“You sure you can keep up?”

“I know the Bearded Lady’s tricks.” She clipped her gauntlets to her belt, blinking quickly to adapt to the growing darkness. “I’ll go first. Only step in if I need support.”

The thief simply chuckled, as the torchlight light began to fade off him, and his body trickled into nothing, waves of shadow engulfing flesh.

The two paced forward in the darkness, the scent of drying blood betraying him where sound and sight didn’t, and she kept back, knowing her clanking armour would do all the work of attracting danger. The cave went down, gaps of moonlight streaking through holes in the rocky shell, and through them had come snow providing a crunchy surface underfoot. By how steeply they were going, she’d wager they were going to come out near the bottom of the cliff itself, and by the decreasing number of corpses in favour of bones licked clean, she’d further wager they were nearing whatever kept the waters of solitude free of mutilated bodies.

“Dark Elf,” Pyke’s voice sounded right in her ear, and the betrayal slightly faded Nagakouros’ gift, his outline slightly visible just to her left, “you might want to pick up the pace.”

“Why, you bleeding out?”

He snickered, “Only mildly. I’m more concerned that your summer-hearted boy back there is going to have a break down before we’re out of cover.”

She frowned. “Jay can handle himself.”

“There’s a difference between handling oneself and getting over oneself. That’s a bomb waiting to blow up in yer face-”

They both fell silent, cutting their movement, at the sounds of snuffling ahead, giant teeth scratching against bone.

“Frost troll.” She exhaled, taking in the third air, “Remember what I said; stay back-”

“And stay alive so Illaoi doesn’t flay you, I remember.”

She flashed the vague area of his scent an irritated look, before she gripped her gauntlets, calmed herself and let out a deep exhale of smoke, before bursting out of cover, hands aflame.

The frost troll barely had time to reach before flames burnt through its outer matting, her deep edges of the gauntlets ripping deep into flesh, targeted at the heart.

She sucked in air and set herself alight. Flames exploded out around her, streaking across the troll, tearing away all the protective outer later, as it flailed. She unlatched herself before she was slammed into the nearest wall, darting back to a good distance.

Unrelenting Force carried the troll straight through the next wall, the very rock buckling under the power, as the monster’s bones buckled and twisted, joints crunching and neck screeching so tantalising close to broken.

And then she had to breath, inhaling sharply and letting the Shout die.

The troll dragged itself upright, agonisingly slowly, but all joints slowly clicking back together, and she prepared to go for its heart once more.

A harpoon passed clean through the now unprotected neck and Pyke sent the decapitated head flying with a feral grin.

A slight tremble, and the troll collapsed.

He turned, eyes glowing somewhat manically.

“Did I support right?” He gave her a once over, tone gleeful, “ _Dragonborn_?”

“What about it?” she snapped, steadying herself with a wobble. Just because she was getting better at using her Voice, it didn’t make the recoil any less exhausting.

The Buhru man just _giggled_. “Nothing at all. Except that the saviour of Skyrim is a _Dunmer_.”

She growled at him, before turning to the sound of heavy footsteps, light flickering.

“Weren’t you meant to just be scouting?” Jarvan asked, exasperated, as his torch light fell over the troll, the joking tone failing to disguise how fragile and fixed his expression had remained. Shyvana tossed a ragged braid over her shoulder.

“We knew we could handle it.”

Jarvan arched an eyebrow, before jumping a foot as Pyke emerged out from nothing.

“Besides, we made a shortcut.”The torch lifted up as the rest of their group arrived, eyeing the new hole Shyvana’s Shout had made, the open seas ahead.

 

“Head along the coast - there should be a cart and driver waiting near the road up to Solitude. He can get you to Whiterun.”

Shyvana waited as Jarvan sent off the last of the prisoners, torch held high as they picked their way over the black stoned beaches. He seemed to just remain as still as marble, before wandering back over to her.

“So where’s your new friend?”

She jutted her chin at the fast-flowing water beside them and he gave her a long dry look.

“Weren’t we meant to keep him alive?”

“He’s a member of the Buhru.” She reminded him, reaching up to flick his chin, “he’s more deadly in water than land anyway.”

Jarvan just exhaled heaving, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. She watched him, gnawing on her lip.

“All right. So he’s taken care of. Now we just need to get ourselves out - there should be a stable somewhere. Unless the guards have closed the borders.”

“Jarvan?”

“But the guards might still be trying to get into the tunnel- no there didn’t seem to be any sign of pursuit, so maybe they wanted to reroute us.”

“Jarvan!” She reached out and snagged his wrist, pulling his hands from his face, “Please breathe.”

He blinked owlishly at her, before sighing. “Right. Yes. We simply need to head to Riften. We should focus on that.”

She knew her mouth was tilted down and could feel the flames of irritation nipping at her hackles.

“All right then. We head across the river and find the nearest hamlet. We’ll hitch a ride in the morning.”

He blinked at her, slowly nodding.

“Yes. Okay.”

“Good.”

With that, she took his wrist, and began to drag him along the water’s edge.

The river that passed under Solitude’s sweeping bridge varied in width, Shyvana found a relatively small distance of still water. It was still _freezing_ , but it allowed them to swim across all the same, the lights of Solitude high behind them, and Shyvana’s fire held out between them.

“We should go northeast.” Jarvan squeezed some excess water of out his coat. “It will get us as far away from Solitude as we can.”

“Gods below, I’m going to be glad when this is all over,” she tried to pool out some water from her increasingly undone hair, “I’m sick of being a drowned rat. We should go to Elswyr. Dry out for a bit.”

“Thanks, but I’m not too keen in getting involved in a giant cult war.”

“You mean we’re not already involved in one?” she drawled, and he let out a short laugh, amusement finally bringing a flush of colour to his eyes.

She let out a short laugh of her own, triumphant, because her gut tensed, and she ducked.

A dagger flew into a tree where her head had been, and she just sighed as Jarvan immediately sobered.

Katarina gazed cheerfully down at them from her perch in a tree branch overhead, nonchalantly flipping a knife around one handed.

“Good to know your both in good spirits,” her high voice drawled, “I’ll take it you know where my gutter brother is?”

“We do, but you’re not going to like it,” Jarvan stepped back to peer up at her, “they’re keeping him in Riften. Good luck getting him out of there.”

Her face immediately pulled together, snooty. “I rather think you’re underestimating me.”

“I think you’re overestimating yourself.”

“We’re going to Riften anyway,” Shyvana just squinted up, “why don’t we just free him on your behalf? The Guild already knows we’re after him.”

She hummed, tapping her chin, “Now why should I trust you-?”

A sharp whistle sounded, and they all split apart as an immense throwing axe hurled itself through the trees to sink right into one.

Katarina sneered at it.

With resounding roars, Thalmor guards came streaming out from cover, lightweight and ice crackling from their fingertips, armed ones following close behind.

Shyvana struck out at the nearest one, and the smell of blood saturated the ground as she ripped out his heart. She inhaled it deeply, letting it kindle the fire within her.

She attacked the huge swarm with all her ferocity, fire blazing as her gauntlets ripped them apart.

Every so often, one would disappear, a lance tip appearing through their body to drag them away, but the group as a whole seemed to be doing their damndest to keep her separate.

Unfortunately, they weren’t expecting the knives to come raining down, Katarina weaving through the branches, felling the fascists in droves, her blades whipping back and forth across any exposed body part.

“Jarvan?!” she demanded, allowing her voice to echo, “Where are you?”

Her hand crushed through a face, and blood and brain matter dripped off it when she pulled back.

“Here!” the voice called harshly, somewhere behind and to her left. She took a moment, and allow her fire to consume her being, before calling out Whirlwind Sprint. The Thalmor all shirked as she flashed past them, the fire carrying with her and leaving a trail under their robes.

She brutalised her way through the rest, coming up to where her companion was fighting.

She paused and let out a small, impressed hum.

Jarvan moved seamlessly through his attacks, the lance spinning and slashing as much as he stabbed with it, using the disconnecting parts to both drag enemies closer and manoeuvre himself out of harm’s way.

Exhaustion was still on his face, the stench of sweat almost thicker here than the blood, but he was relentless in his efforts to down the horde all trying to single-mindedly murder him.

She sniffed and the Thalmor about to stab her back froze as she caught his wrist, twisting it out with a distinct snap and sending her other hand straight through his chest.

The next two went down together, throwing knives in their skulls.

“What a brutal fighting style. Feral beast, indeed.” Katarina mused, eyes gleeful, laughing properly as Shyvana flipped her off angrily, turning back to Jarvan.

He cleaved a spearman’s weapon in half, the blade reaching far enough to slash open his front, the follow up strike cutting through his chest plate to cut him down.

Jarvan exhaled, straightening up, and missed the lightning getting aimed from behind.

She exhaled, prepared to Shout again, and then paused as the shadows around the mage seemed to waver.

Jarvan spun at the scream, just in time to see the Thalmor’s head come flying off in a clean sweep, his body crumpling to the ground. Kayn snickered as he almost swam out from the stone, lightly dropping down into the bloodied snow, a black scythe suspended over his shoulders, the blade pulsating with all the rhythm of a heartbeat. He’d removed the robe, and in the night’s darkness, the angry red and black consuming his whole arm, reaching out over his chest and face, glinted like an eerie beacon.

Shyvana stared at the scythe dubiously, even as she caught an archer and melted his helm onto his head.

“That’s a Daedric Artefact.”

Jarvan released a short, aborted sigh.

Kayn grinned, twirling it and slicing the next guard’s head clean off his shoulder.

“Yeah well, we can’t all have a Green Pact binding us to the world’s energies. Some Blades have to improvise.”

“Lovely,” Jarvan fished his lance free from a skull and Kayn gave him a very sceptical once over. The bodies at his feet pulsed red, the souls flowing into the ebony blade.

Katarina reappeared through one of her jumps, a head falling through with her.

“You lot almost done cleaning them up?”

“Where were you?”

“Dealing with a few stragglers.”

The remaining Thalmors were all beginning to halt themselves, eyeing the countless bodies of their compatriots staining the snow. A few even began to turn tail and Jarvan sighed, hefting his lance across his shoulder.

“Well, that’s done then-”

Kayn slipped past him, and the scythe seemed to grow in size, an immense blade of shadow sweeping across the turned backs downing them immediately. Shyvana had always considered scythes more ornamental blades in place of anything practical, but this guy knew what he was doing, twisting and twirling the pole between his arms and over his shoulders with all the right finesse to decapitate his targets.

Jarvan just winced.

“What is that thing?”

“The Scythe of Boethiah – supposedly the Prince himself can whisper through it to the wielder. Tricks them into taking it up and slowly consumes their soul. The only way to stave it off is to offer up other souls as substitutes.”

Jarvan’s face had progressively fallen over the course of the explanation.

“You know, with every bit of info I get, the more convinced I am that Cyroddil was right to cast off the Deadra.” He remarked, voice dry and she snorted.

“It’s cute that you think you succeeded.”

“Really?”

“Of course. They’re _gods_.” Kayn returned, braid swaying, “Human laws aren’t keeping them out – in fact you pretty much invited them in to meddle by doing so.”

He ran a hand hungrily over his weapon, before hefting it up, with something that could be a smirk, but really wanted to be a sneer.

“Well, that’s my cue. Did you get it?”

“Riften’s our best bet.”

“Oh, he got nice and cozy with the Guild, did he?” Kayn snorted, “my Master thought that’d be the case.”

“Irelia?”

“Gods no,” he sneered, “good luck with the hunt. Try not to end the world. As for you,” he swept his fellow Altmer a bow, “a pleasure. I hope you die in a fire.”

“Easy words for a turncoat to say,” she winked back and he snorted, stepping back and dissolving into the shadows.

Katarina snorted, swaying back and resting her arms behind her head.

“Well, I guess that means the party's over. Make sure Talon gets himself home, ‘kay?”

Jarvan blinked at her, “Wait . . . you’re okay-?”

“Yeah, yeah, go on now. Shoo.” She gestured them away and Jarvan stiffened. Shyvana caught his arm.

“Let’s just go, Jay. I’m tired.”

He glanced down, and she looked as entreating as she could. After a moment, he sighed and nodded.

“Yes. All right.”

They spared the assassin one last glance, before vanishing off into the darkness.

* * *

 

As the chaos faded, Katarina made her way over to the unmistakably designed axe, still imbedded in the trunk, untouched during the brief skirmish. With a scoff, she reached out and tugged it free, giving it a single twirl and then letting it fall into the dirt.

“You know, if you hadn’t done that last part, I might have even said thank you.”

“Yeah, well, consider it my thanks for the ‘heads up’.”

She turned to stare at the Altmer watching her, armour the black of the Thalmor. “Of course you got invited to this thing.”

He sent her a crooked grin, “What can I say? Everyone wants a bit of-”

“What does Swain want?” she interrupted, flicking her hair boredly and he sneered, mock bowing.

“Your presence is demanded back in Alinor, _Lady Du Couteau_. Best not keep the High General waiting~”

“Whatever. Go tell that old crow I’ll be home soon enough,” he caught the axe easily, but only just dodged the dagger thrown in its blind spot. Katarina’s eyes were dark, “but I’m sure he can keep a Thorn out of his back, all on his own, for a little bit longer.”

 

* * *

 

Shyvana waited until they were hunkered down in a small room, in a hamlet well free from Solitude and the nearby Embassy.

Jarvan was sitting on the bed they’d been lent when she returned with a bowl of soup, ladle extended obligingly.

As they took turns blowing off the steam, she drew her legs up to her chest.

“. . . Sorry.”

“Hm?” he glanced down, “What about?”

“I shouldn’t have taken you into that room. It upset you.”His hands stilled, before resuming their task, extra determined. “It was fine though. And if I hadn’t gone down, you probably would have left the rest.”

She flattened her mouth, discontent and he let out a faint laugh.

“Besides, I’ve got to face my fears eventually.”

“There’s a difference,” she mumbled, reaching up to braid some of the hair that had come free over the night, “facing your fear isn’t the same as risking traumatic memories. If you’d panicked, or freaked, we could have gotten seriously fucked over.”

The bowl in his hands was shaking. “But I didn’t. So, it’s fine.”

She turned, eyebrows drawn together and eyes flashing. “Really?”

Jarvan blinked, smiling and gently tilting his head, light fading before it reached his eyes, “Really.”

She went to reach out, hesitated, but continued anyway, snagging the tips of his shirt. He jumped as she began to undo the buttons and she gave him a very severe look.

“I can stop.”

“. . . No.” Jarvan exhaled, dropping his hands into his lap, “It _is_ fine.”

She just continued to sound her discontent, pushing off the shirt to reveal the brutal latticework crisscrossing his shoulders and vanishing onto his back. Even weeks after, the distinct scarring of the arrow wound stuck out like an agitated thumb.

He twitched ( _frightened like an animal_ ) as her hands came in contact with the scars, fingertips ghosting over mottled skin.

“They really did this all, didn’t they?” she mused, unable to keep her rage from colouring her voice, “Those _assholes_.”

“Maybe I should consider myself light off,” Jarvan’s tone fell two rungs short of joking, “I still have my lower jaw.”

“That kind of thinking sort of pisses me off.” She drawled and he laughed, a trace deprecatingly.

“It’s fine.” his hands twisted, “besides, I only got what I deserved.”She narrowed her eyes, “What do you mean?”

He swallowed. “Exactly that. I’m not like those people who were enslaved back there. The reason I was on the cart was because I broke the Concordat. The Thalmor had the right to do . . . all this.”

“ _Bullshit_ -!“

“People died, Shyvana!” he snapped, “Good people! Because of me! This is . . . I _deserve . . .”_ his voice trailed off, shoulders beginning to tremble as small sobs echoed around them.

She hesitated for a second, before reaching out and wrapping herself around him, her own ebony arms covering up his scars.

“I don’t know what happened back then. And I’m not asking you to explain it. But I’ll tell you this - _nobody_ in that room was an innocent.”

“. . . Why-?”

“Rebels. Naysayers. Assassins. Gods below, even ignoring the fact that Pyke’s part of the guild, he’s a _Buhru_! If seafarers don’t pay his clan money, they sit back and let the Bearded Lady take their lives instead! _”_

 _“_ That doesn’t matter!” he snapped back, twisting in her grip, “They still didn’t deserve that!”

“So why do you?”

He froze.

She felt a glint of triumph as his head slumped forward onto her shoulder. A quiet shake took over his body.

“Because . . . _because_. . .”

“I don’t care what happened.” She murmured, “I promise.”

“. . . You’d leave,” his voice was bitter, “if you knew why. You’d leave before I could get a second sentence in.”

Her ire spiked and he grunted as her grip turned a bit too strong.

“I  _won’t_.” She insisted, “Trust me, Jarvan. I won’t leave you.”

He was silent for a moment, before fingers gripped the back of her shirt, and deep sobs echoed against her neck.

They remained as they were, clinging to each other, as the candle burnt down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are there so many characters in this chapter? Who knows? Not me! I don't know where half of them came from!  
> Especially Pyke. He just came in out of nowhere!
> 
> My updates might get a bit patchy because I just started up my courses again, but I'll do my best to keep it rolling.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos!  
> (I cry tears of joy over them)
> 
> Mephala - Vilemaw  
> Hircine - Kindred  
> Bearded Lady/Nagakouros - Nocturnal  
> Boethiah - Rhaast


	7. Riften and Company

It was disturbing, how well practiced they were becoming.

Jarvan’s arrows clipped through the bony wings, a third striking its eye. The dragon roared as it stuttered mid flight, and Shyvana’s Shout sent it hurling backwards into the nearest mountain. Deftly, he switched out for his lance, striking forward to latch into on the horns, as Shyvana came from the other side, her blazing gauntlets ripping open its flanks. It writhed, trying to snap at him, but he just unlatched the pieces, dodging out of reach and using the enhanced length to haul it sideways. Shyvana appeared from thin air, slamming hard against its unbalanced side. As it crashed over, one wing bone shattering from the impact, she ducked under the futile claw strike to rip out its heart.

She didn’t even flinch now, as the soul merged into hers, simply dropping the crushed heart and wiping the blood off its claws.

“They’re becoming more frequent.” He noted idly, freeing the lance tip, “How many does this make?”

“Four, since we crossed into the Winter’s Claw territory,” she squeezed out her hair, and he watched as instead of water, a morbid amount of dark red came out instead, “think we can carry any more bones?”

Tucked away safely was a small horse and cart, in which a whole myriad of dragon fossils now existed. Jarvan let out a low doubtful rumble and she laughed, simply reaching out to grab and horn tip and snap it clean off.

“Here.”

He caught it out of the air, as she stretched out her back, arms flashing in the morning light. The dark ink stretched across her muscle-bound arms, like a sea of scales breaking apart her skin.

He blinked and dropped his gaze to his lance, wiping the coagulating blood off against the few stubborn patches of grass, still able to stick out from the snow in the southern region of Skyrim. “What was that new Shout?”

“The one I picked up in Ustengrav - ‘Feim’ or fade. Look at this.”

He got into a slightly steady stance, but this Thu’um warbled through the air, more of a phantom of a sound than a true Shout. In that instant, her body vanished from sight, shape distorting and merging with the world around them.

He let out an impressed whistle, beginning to head to their ride.

“I can think of all sorts of things I could use this for,” she chirped, and he was exposed to the most curious sensation, of feeling those two same muscle-bound arms wrap around his chest, but seeing nothing to agree with the sensation.

“So what is this? You’re invisible?”

There was a shimmer and suddenly he was gazing at ebony arms, two amber eyes resting on her shoulder, chest pressing against his back. Her lips were pursed and he smiled at the way it softened her expression, the usual feral edge seeming so much more tame.

“I think it’s more like I become ethereal - as if I’m no longer important enough for light.”

“Handy,” He dropped the horn into the cart and began to unwound the arms. He ended on her hands, tucked around his shirt. One, he pulled off, but the other he kept a hold on, guiding her over to the cart and bowing, as if offering a hand to a lady.

She smirked at him, kept her hand in his, as she hoisted herself into the cart in a very unladylike manner.

“Do you think there’ll be a Word Wall in Riften?” she asked aloud as he moved to the horse, swinging up into the saddle and urging their ride forward, “At the rate we’re going, I have more dragon souls than Shouts - I’d sort of like to find a few more.”

“You’re the one who’s been to Riften before, I feel like you’re better informed than I.”

She hummed at that, and he settled down into the saddle for another long day of hours upon hours of gradually (very gradually) thawing countryside.

 

* * *

 

 

It was almost nice weather as they reached the southernmost Hold, a light speckling of grey above them, the sun defiantly poking through. The various business moguls all had their own estates, set against the deep lakes that surrounded the main city, and they rode past the whole lost as the approached the hold capitol, sticking precariously over the canal as it had for hundreds of years.

The wall guards moved to block their way as the pair rode up, faces hardened and suspicious.

“What business do you have in Riften?” one demanded, “Speak quickly or I’ll send word straight to the Jarl.”

“We’re here to meet a partner of ours,” Jarvan responded as politely as he could, valiantly suppressing all the fatigue and saddle soreness that had been accumulating over the past days, “we’re not here to cause trouble.”

The first guard frowned harder, but his companion straightened up.

“Ah, are those dragon bones?” he lowered his spear slightly, voice incredulous. Shyvana, working against Jarvan’s attempts at diplomacy with her ferocious and fatigue fuelled glaring, simply shifted her leg to better reveal the unholy amount of bone they’d secured in the cart and saddle bags.

“A Dunmer and Imperial . . . with dragon bones . . .” the second guard straightened, “then, you would be . . . Mistress Illaoi’s . . .”

The other guard, staring in disbelief at his companion, immediately clammed up. Both straightened to attention, spears upright, and gaze fixed beyond the pair.

Jarvan coughed, “So . . . can we go in?”

Neither so much as glanced at him and he slumped. “Is that-?”

“That’s a yes,” Shyvana intruded beside him, “go on.”

She gave his horse a firm tap on the rump and Jarvan felt the jolt through his spine as the animal spurred itself forward, every muscle screaming for an end as the gates of the lake city swung shut behind them.

He was aware how fast word travelled, but his discontent grew rapidly the further they picked their way over the cobblestones, the smell of the docks growing stronger every course, as every guard they passed avoided their gaze, carefully staring at nothing at all.

“Just like that, huh?” he murmured, low enough for Shyvana and no one else, “One mention of Illaoi and we’re in.”

“The Guild brings in almost all their revenue,” Shyvana pointed out, equally soft, “It doesn’t matter that the Jarl is in charge - the Guild signs everyone’s pay checks.”

He just pursed his lips, unsettled, and she rolled her eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve spent my entire childhood being taught to hunt and persecute all corruption,” he snorted, “now I’m in a city that thrives on it.”

“Hey, if there’s no standing government to undermine, isn’t it simply another form of government?”

She sat up from her spot to briefly stretch out her back, face completely at ease and Jarvan just rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the way the citizens were glancing between them and the guards, similarly averting their gazes upon making the connection.

“So where are we going anywhere?” He interrupted her sun basking, trying to look around as subtly as possible, “I don’t think there’ll just _be_ a building around here for us to walk into.”

“It’s meant to be in the sewers,” Shyvana slumped back down to reality and he really tried to not laugh at her pouting face, “Oblivion knows where though. It’s a labyrinth down there.”

He ran fingers through his hair, “Haven’t you done work for them before?”

“Well, yeah, but it was just some small time shit. Never actually saw the Guild Hall.”

Jarvan sat back, tipping his head up to the sky.

“So what? We just wonder until we stumble upon the entrance?”

“That . . . _was_ my plan.” Shyvana pushed her fingers together, “Should I change it?”

He turned his face to hers, and just sighed, refusing to be endeared at the way she was watching him, all pouty, her eyes almost round from how dilated they had become.

“Well, where should we start?” he just sat back, motioning for her to continue. “Do you have any more of a plan?”

Her long ears pricked up.

“Well, I’d start with the Buhru brewery - the clan pretty much runs both Riften and the Guild, so that will be the more reliable place to find someone who can get us a meeting with the Guild Master.”

Jarvan frowned, urging horse forward, “And . . . we want to meet the Guild Master?”

“They handle all business that goes through the guild - they’ll know where Talon is.”

“Right,” Jarvan sighed slightly, “Sorry that I can’t help out - I’ve never really had any experience with the Thieves Guild. It’s one of the organisation our border guards keep out.”

They moved through the town for a brief moment, and he sighed internally.

“Shyvana.”

“Hm?”

“You’re being conspicuously silent in response to that.”

“Weeeeeell,” she avoided looking at him, “ _I_ never worked in Cyrodiil. Too many racists.”

“ _Shyvana._ ”

 She snorted at his face.

“Do you have any respect for civil order?”

“Not particularly,” she rolled over, folding her arms against the side of the cart, “I find it all rather overrated.”

He ground a finger into his temple, because he really felt like he should argue that - an entire lifetime of lectures about duty and order was flat gaping at this woman and he was struggling to prevent it from showing on his face.

“Do you . . . _care_ what would happen if there wasn’t order? No countries, no treaties, no divisions of power-?”

“Jarvan,” Shyavan interrupted, voice sharp, “is that flipper waving at us?”

He turned to look at her, incredulous, but she merely arched an eyebrow and nodded her chin.

Following the gaze, he blinked, eyebrows ever so slightly arching.

Over the edge of a canal, a small webbed hand appeared to be ever so subtly beckoning them over. He sent a cursory glance, but the majority of people were at the market, and the area surrounding them was empty.

“ _Here_ ,” a small voice hissed, deliberately deep in tone, _“over here_.”

“I say we cut it off.” Shyvana rumbled, voice _actually_ deep and irritated, and she carried it slightly, “and feed it to the next dragon.”

The webbed fingers flinched, darting back down.

_“I’m just here because Illaoi said so, don’t eat me, Dragon lady!”_

The voice squeaked, a lot more pitchy and a lot of more freaked. Jarvan cuffed the nape of his companion’s head.

“Why is your response always involving violence?”

Iit’s efficient.”

They moved their horses towards the edge and peered down to the small creature clinging a little desperately to the side of the canal. A scaled face looked up at them, huge fish-glass eyes round, and several scaled tentacles in place of hair.

“It’s rude, what it is!” the little thing pouted up at them, “Don’t shoot the messenger, yeah?”

“A yordle?” Jarvan blinked, amazed, “I thought you were all meant to be . . . well, furred.”

“And cute.” Shyvana added on, voice scathing and it puffed itself up.

“I’m plenty cute!”

“Sure, sewer fish.”

The two had something of a glare off and Jarvan sent a quick prayer to his gods, turning to the aquatic yordle.

“Are you here to bring us to the Guild?”

The yordle flipped one its hair/tentacles at Shyvana, bodily turning to him.

“That I am! Fizz, at your well paying service!” he gave a short bow, “By the way, you’re going to need to leave the horses behind.”

“What about all our stuff?” Shyvana drawled and received a nonchalant flipper waved her way.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fizz dismissed, “we’ll have a grunt take it somewhere safe.”

“Then maybe I’ll let you know now that I know every bit of equipment and loot in those packs memorised,” her eyes sharpened to their thinnest most menacing slits, the runes on her hands activating with her magika, “and if anything is missing . . .”

“I’LL PASS THE MESSAGE ON!”

“Stop threatening our guide, Shyv,” he knocked her lightly, and received nothing more than an incorrigible smirk for his efforts. He shook his head disapprovingly (and he did _not_ have a look of Imperial Disdain, he just had basic propriety) as he swung down, fastening the reins to a nearby column. Fizz shifted impatiently, before dropping down under the ledge.

“This way! This way!”

“Not all of us are gilled . . . oh I see,” Shyvana reached out to the railing, swinging herself over it in a lithe movement and vanishing down the sides. Jarvan peered down.

“All good?”His companion sent him a thumbs up, from where she had gotten her feet sunk into a ladder, cut into the stone itself.

“I’ll catch you before you fall in.” She grinned up, and he grunted.

(And if he almost slipped off, then that was nobody’s business but his own and Shyvana could wipe that smug grin off her face)

A small little walkway had been erected on the underside of the canal, the waters coasting onto the boards every so often, and a bunch of small black doors were all sunken into the rock.

Fizz laid the way to a small iron grate, right near where the canal opened up back into the lake. Algae visibly grew along the metal, and the entire gate had an almost slimy like film coating, his grip slipping the first time he went to swing it open, and his gloves shining when he let go. Fizz just dove into the canal, coming up on the other side, as the pair carefully prised open the bars, boots soaking right through as the stepped down into the hopefully mostly water layered on the sewer floors. Shyvana pulled a face as she wiped the grime of her hands.

“I’m going to smell this for a month, aren’t I?” she grunted, nose wrinkled and he winced in immediate sympathy, even his much less sensitive senses offended by the rapidly building smell of civilised filth, growing only more prominent every step they descended in further.

Lanterns lit up the way, sunlight not reaching at all, as water leaked through the tenuous ceiling above, covering all the stone walls in a fine layer of green fungus. Around them, the sewers just seemed to open up, countless doorways greeting them, walkways above sprawling pipes, vaulted ceilings leaving ample room for skeevers to nest in the rafters, and countless upon countless pairs of hungry, desperate eyes all leering out at them.

“Just ignore them,” Fizz waved a dismissive flipped, “Most are Winter’s Claw deserters, and the rest came here to hide from their problems. If they can’t find the Guild, then Nocturnal isn’t sparing them any sympathy.”

Jarvan felt a small rumble of discontent, dropping back to stand beside Shyv.

“This war is so pointless,” he bit out, “why fight something when no one wants to fight it?”

She sent her a rather frank look, “Most people don’t want to fight wars. It’s the people giving the orders who care. These people probably just drew the line at fighting kin.”

He drew back, surprised, “I thought you didn’t care much about war.”

She frowned, “Well I _don’t_. But I’ve grown up as part of a society that welcomes people who desert from it. You heard what the sewer fish said - refugees and deserters, all bundled down here together.”

He winced, pulling sideways and a silence draped over them. Shyvana cracked her knuckles absently.

“Do you . . . think war is a good thing, Jarvan?” she asked, boots clipping against the damp stones.

He just sighed, letting his thumbs drop against his belt.

“I think it’s a necessary evil.” He answered, careful and deliberate, not missing the way her eyes had contracted in wariness, “I think that it would be far worse for a leader to step down and offer his people no leadership in circumstances that pitted them against terrible odds. I think it’s even worse for them to turn a blind eye to the injustices that people fight wars to end.”

“Wars don’t end,” she pointed out, “one side just wins, and nothing happens until the other side has gotten enough might to start it all up again.”

Slightly, without his volition, his jaw clenched.

“They do end,” he argued back, “People stop fighting when their crisis has been resolved. Wars _continue_ because new problems arise.”

“Which arise because people hold grudges over losing the last one.”

“But is influenced just as much by circumstance then it is by the people who want revenge,” he folded his arms, “People do want revenge, but it takes a new crisis for that to transform into war.”

“Argonians invaded Morrowind as soon as they could, in revenge for centuries of slavery.” She pointed out.

“But that invasion only happened because of the Red Year.” He argued straight back. “People are stirred by chaos, and war comes from chaos.”

“Everything is chaos.” Her hands flexed and clenched, over and over, “If you think otherwise, then you need to pop your nice and cushy walled up bubble.”

Hot anger _flared_ and his jaw clenched _hard_ as he turned to glare.

She met his gaze dead on, mouth thin, and for a moment he imagined he was gazing into the eyes of the dragons they’d been fighting, burning with molten gold and lava.

For a moment, they stayed like that, rigid, before he decided to be the adult and broke the gaze.

“Fine. Whatever you say, Shyvana. I’m sure I _don’t_ know anything beyond my upbringing.”

In his peripheral gaze, she loosened slightly, maybe surprised he’d given up, or maybe even contrite.

And then her shoulders drew up, her lips went even more thin and her ears lowered to almost flat as she turned her face the other way.

Agree to disagree then.

In one small exhale, Jarvan suddenly felt the weight of almost a month and a half of travelling through this frozen, gods forsaken country, in his limbs, his bones. He just wanted to crash for a solid week and not move.

But Shyvana was defensive and Fizz had straight up vanished (he hadn’t noticed when they’d stopped walking, but he really didn’t care).

[Trust me, Jarvan.]

He reached up, the scratchy gloves scraping against his eyelids. “Let’s just go. Talk to this Guild Master and find the two ‘Most Wanted’ elves.”

“. . . Yeah. Whatever.”

She exhaled, soft enough that he barely heard, before letting her shoulders drop blinking a few times. For a moment he thought her eyes were shining, before realising her pupils were swiftly dilating to suit the dim lighting, overriding her emotions.

He exhaled with her.

“So, what do we do now that our guide straight vanished on us?” he asked mostly to the old, slimy walls, partially to her.

She pointed down a root to their right.

He blinked. “Are you guessing or . . .?”

“I can smell him,” her feet tapped against the ground, prowling past him, “let’s go.”

They walked in a silence that wasn’t quite tense, but wasn’t quite awkward, nose wrinkled and leather shoes tapping against the stones almost as much as the leaking roof did The walls opened up, and the yordle, in the midst of vibrating frantically, visibly relaxed at the sight of them.

“Oh good. I thought you’d gotten lost. And, you know, Nautilus could _probably_ find you, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to just go and _ask_ him for something-”

“This it?” Shyvana interrupted, stepping up to where he was bouncing, and he nodded, head almost blurring with his movements.

She stepped forward for a closer look, and, even now, he’d be damned if he didn’t move to join her side.

The entrance to the Ragged Flagon was a small grate sunk into one of the various rest points in the cistern, surrounded by a worryingly large number of dead bandits sprawled around it. Fizz toed at them.

“Damn. I think I was meant to clear them out today - hope the skeevers haven’t smelt the blood.”

“You all take turns?” Jarvan asked, voice an uncertain blend of incredulous and disgusted and the yordle shrugged.

“Guildmaster’s orders. Gets pissed if there are are too many rodents around the entrance.”

He found a spare plank lying on the ground, and gingerly shoved the bodies aside, tossing the plank on top and pushing open the grate.

“Welcome, Dragon Lady and Friend, to the Ragged Flagon.”

The entire bar looked like it was one earthquake short of collapsing into the massive cistern taking up a lion’s share of the space. There were only a few people about, but the atmosphere was surprisingly _not_ sombre - bright lanterns were lighting up the place and even if it wasn’t often, whenever the patrons wandered close to each other, they were soon talking loudly and openly. One figure clad in dark leathers was ignoring everything, and the dull thuds of their arrows striking targets created a rhythmic backdrop, whereas a lone High Elf was perched on a small jetty, sewing something that looked worryingly like flesh.

The bartender, right on the opposite end of the cavern, was handing over two tankards to a pair of bickering men, a stocky Redguard with a gun definitely overcompensating for something, and making quite a contrast to his partner, well dressed and flicking a set of playing cards over his fingers.

They all turned at the sound of the closing grate, most then going back to their business. From one of the darker corners, Pyke sent Shyvana a nod as he sharpened his harpoon-dagger, his mouth now covered by a frightfully detailed bandanna, and two peg legs tapping the ground. Jarvan tried to not be irritated as he just got some eyebrows waggled at him. Fizz, his task complete, just dove straight into the cistern with a loud splash, small shape vanishing into the dark rather quickly.

“What brings you fellas way down here?” the gunman rumbled, spinning around on the old bar stool.

“The sewer fish.” Shyvana replied blithely and he resisted to bury his face in his hands at her still somewhat surly tone. The gun man arched an eyebrow, but his partner just sat back.

“Mighty rare for a Dark’un to travel so far down ‘ere.” his voice was tinted with the distinctive accent of the Riverfolk, “Even rarer for ‘em to have those sorts of inks. You’d be Shyvana, huh?”

He turned to eye ball her. She blinked.

“Yep.”

“Oh I remember that,” the gunman sat back, grinning around his tankard, “We used ya to mule some stuff a few years back. That was a good haul - where are my cigars, you skeezeboat?”

“How I am suppos’d to know that, Graves?”

“Don’t think you can hide those slippery fingers from me-"

Jarvan just swallowed his desire to call as many armed guards as possible, and took Shyvana by her wrist, pulling her towards the bar.

“We were hoping to meet with your Guild Master,” he spoke over the growing discontentment, “Is he in or-?”

“Oh, don’t worry. She’s right here~”

By the end of this, Jarvan was never going to be able to look at a redhead without suspecting that they ran an underground cult.

The woman emerging from the back of the Ragged Flagon looked everything like a harmless bartender, simple pants, top that purposefully dropped to reveal far more cleavage than necessary, and thick boots that had just a big enough heel to ring out with each step.

There was nothing deceitful about the two immense blunderbusses she rested on the bar top.

“Miss Fortune,” she extended a scarred hand, nails perfectly manicured, “what brings you both to the Guild?”

There was something buried in her expression as her gaze slid from them to the rest of the gathered Guild.

“Not our fault, Sarah!” Fizz popped out of the water, indignant, “Illaoi said to show them the path!”

Miss Fortune turned to stare at him, blankly, face as hospitable as ever.

(The sort of look a fisherman gives before throwing the chum in with you)

She turned back to them.

At having the look directed at her, Shyvana snarled, immediately shifting towards a crouch.

Jarvan just reached over, and caught her shoulder, pressure ever so slight. For a moment, his hand met resistance, but she simply gave him a sour look, before grudgingly straightening and blanking her expression.

Miss Fortune’s own face didn’t change.

“And what does Mistress Illaoi want?”

Her voice was worryingly sweet.

Jarvan winced, “We’re not actually here _for_ Illaoi. She just gave us the invitation in exchange for freeing your Harpoonist.”

It was like a light switch. Miss Fortune straightened up and the pair at the bar both visibly relaxed. The yordle spun around to look at the surly man, sharpening his tools.

“Then why didn’t _you_ say anything?!”

“No point,” the man examined his weapon, “they’d be here soon enough.”

“And _why_ , Pyke, are they here?” mild irritation was beginning to colour Miss Fortune’s voice, “I find it slightly grating that apparently two people knew we were going to have guests and didn’t tell me of their identities, nor of their aims.”

“Yeah, yeah, you like a tight ship,” Graves grumbled into his tankard, becoming wholly fixated on it as his Guild Master turned to scowl at him.

Jarvan decided it was time to intervene. “We apologise for coming so abruptly. We just need to find two people who are down here, and then we’ll leave immediately-”

“Hold that thought, flower boy,” he froze to find a blunderbuss barrel directed straight at him, “I’m not done with this lot yet.”

“And if we all hold our thoughts, our bodies then freeze, and we will all sink.”

The booming voice echoed over the Guild and everyone, even the few camped out in the corners of the cistern, were scrambling to their feet.

Illaoi strolled in, eyes bright. Unlike the party, where she had at least maintained some level of formality, this time she lumbered right in, beaded necklaces and rings dripping from her, and an immense grotesquely carved totem balanced on her shoulder, “Ah, Little Miss Sarah - your predecessor might have considered himself above his tithes to the Bearded Lady, but _you_ seem to forget we run a business, not a bounty hunting lodge.”

The woman’s expression went frigid dreadfully fast and Jarvan leant down to Shyvana’s ear.

“Do you know who her predecessor was?”

“A pirate called Gangplank. She killed him.”

“. . . Ah.”

“What’s brought you down here, Priestess?” the bartender asked sharply, glance flashing to his Guild Master. A broad smile covered her face.

“Of course, I wanted to see my end of the bargain upheld. Some little fish informed me that the Dragonborn and co. had arrived.”

The entire cistern all startled, Twisted Fate spitting his beer (straight into Grave’s face), Miss Fortune straightening up off the bar top, and the bartender dropped his glass with a sharp crack that echoed over the whole group.

Shyvana just buried her face in her hands.

“Why do people care so much?” she rumbled into her fingers, even as Twisted Fate pounded his chest.

“Hold up there.” he got out, “Y’all tellin’ me Shyvana, as in the Dunmer we used to smuggle shit into the Black Marsh, is the _Dragonborn_?”

Shyvana sighed. “I’m starting to get really pissed off by this whole Dragonborn thing.”

“Well, at least it seems to be working in our favour this time,” he pointed out, any hope, that some of his rationality was beginning to rub off on her, dying fast.

She pouted at him, but let it slide.

A smuggler, huh?

“Indeed,” Illaoi turned to them, “you both rescued Pyke, came to Riften alone and even made that party a bit of fun.”

She turned to the bartender. “They’re here for the Black Hand. Let him go.”

He choked. “Are you _serious-?”_

“Rafen . . .” Miss Fortune smiled, warning in her tone, “let’s not piss her off, ‘kay~?”

The bartender seized up, nodding hastily and flashing a glance at Twisted Fate.

He let out a monumental sigh, finished his drink, before ambling over to a set of supply closets just beside the Ragged Flagon.

“. . . Really?” Fizz’s voice was small and gargling in the water, “It took forever to get him in there.”

“Don’t you have some _bodies_ to clean, little fish?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

There was no key to the small broom closet, but the Riverman didn’t seem at all concerned as he fished out a small pick from his hat’s rim.

Jarvan glanced back at the splash, just in time to see the yordle vanishing back out the grate, a disturbingly large trident now in his possession.

By the time he looked back, the lock was already open and being yanked off. Jarvan almost shivered at the sight of the complex mechanism.

“He might know how to plunge knives in all the right places, but assassins sure are shit with locks.” Graves rumbled, amused from his perch at the bar. With no care whatsoever, the doors were flung open to reveal an entire room in place of a supply closet and the Riverman led them in.

The Thing contained within spotted them and immediately protested aggressively.

Or he would have, if he wasn’t secured to the wall by about five chains.

“Yeesh. Assassins,” the Riverman sighed, shaking his head as the High Elf strained with all his might, seemingly intent on busting free from the very wall itself - considering a pile of rubble and a chain hook on the ground, he’d clearly gotten one sixth of the way during his stay in there.

The snarl on his face, one such that could have easily killed a lesser man, only grew more intense as the Riverman approached.

“Careful T.F,” Graves chuckles, “he might try to channel his stone gazed sibling on ya.”

The High Elf’s eyes went almost white in outrage.

Twisted Fat just snorted as he pulled down the gag, but most certainly not touching the manacles.

Illaoi chuckled, a deep resonant laugh in her barrel chest, “Aren’t you going to thank your kindly patrons, gutter rat?”

The assassin just glared, baring his teeth, “The minute I’m loose, I’ll have you all face down in the lake you drunken, sewer-stinking little-”

“Oh, keep your ears up. You’re a free man-err, Elf.” Miss Fortune laughed, “And we didn’t even take your grubby fingers.”

“How about I take yours instead?” the High Elf grumbled, still prone on the ground, still fully manacled.

Jarvan took that as his cue to come around Twisted Fate, Shyavan’s feet light behind him.

Talon blinked, blinked again and squinted hard.

_“_ What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“Long story,” he offered, as Shyvana snarled with all her teeth, and Jarvan swiftly stepped in front of her. “Your sister sent us.”

It had a decent effect. The anger drained away, irritation, annoyance and the bright red of embarrassment taking its place.

“. . . Which one?”

“Katarina.”

His shoulders slumped, “Oh. Okay. I can live with that.”

“All settled? Excellent!” Illaoi thumped a hand against her totem, now resting against the bar much to Rafen’s discomfort, “Set him loose.”

Twisted Fate shook his head, crouching down to pick the rest, “It’s a damn shame to let him go. I liked that ring.”

“Maybe you should have held onto it better than,” the assassin spat at him.

The Riverman inspected him, but just finished removing the manacles.

The High Elf cut off the yelp as some of the metal pinched enough to bleed as the Riverman removed them.

Miss Fortune emerged from the back room she’d come from originally, veritably strutting with a bundle of clothes.

“Here - we wouldn’t be caught dead selling a Brotherhood uniform, and nobody wanted your tacky cloak.”

Talon grabbed the bundle with a scowl.

“Your sister,” Jarvan reminded sharply, “and I’d appreciate you not mentioning this.”

Talon sent him another incredulous glance, before snorting, “Yeah, no shit.”

 His entire being rippled with cerulean light and he vanished in the blink of the eye.

Shyvana huffed, “Ungrateful little shit.”

“You got that right, Missy,” Graves tipped his head at his partner, “surprised you let it slide.”

“Oh don’t you worry none,” Twisted Fate danced a few playing cards over his fingers, “he’ll have a nice hearty surprise waitin’ for ’im in that coat.”

“Where’d he know you from?” Rafen asked, looking at Jarvan curiously, “Pardon the assumption, but ya don’t look like one who engages with the Brotherhood.”

“It’s . . . it’s a _long_ story-”

“And it’s too long for my liking," Shyvana shovelled past him. “That’s one. Now where’s the one who matters?”

“I wasn’t aware our sewers were such hot real estate,” Miss Fortune snarked whereas Illaoi just snorted.

Shyvana straightened out her back, and her eyes blazed.

“We’re looking for a Bosmer named Yasuo,” she explained, “he’s probably somewhere in the Ratway.”

“He’s likely middle-aged-“

“Will probably have a really conspicuous sharp thing on him.”

“Probably doesn’t want to be seen.”“Been around for a while?”

“Maybe nine years-“

“Woah, woah, woah,” Graves waved his hands at them, “Yeah, we know the cisterns, but _damn_ we don’t know them that well.”

“We will look for your Bosmer,” Illaoi clapped Shyvana on the back and Jarvan winced on her behalf, “but it will take time. Go, I have requested a room for you at The Bee and the Barb. Stay a night, enjoy this fine city! We will have your mer by the morrow.”

Jarvan glanced around, from the thieves’ expressions ranging from muted curiosity, to Illaoi’s impenetrable smile, to Shyvana’s haggard eyes and his own aching bodies.

“All right then,” he agreed, “that sounds like a plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

The room Illaoi had set aside for them was still a far cry from anything in the White City, but Jarvan had never seen anything so inviting.

Beside Shyvana moaned as she flopped onto the immense thick mattress, half buried in the blankets.

The room was spacious, the floor was smooth and covered in thick rugs, the detailed were supported with thick mahogany rafters and a side door led off into an actual bathroom.

There was even a lit fireplace.

At Shyvana’s next moan, he actually laughed, stepping closer.

“You okay in there, or do I need to fish you out?”

“Move me, and I rip your arm off,” she responded cheerfully, “oh _gods_ I should have committed to the Guild for real. This is _orgasmic_.”

He flopped down beside her, patting her raggedy purple braid.

“Not a common experience?”

“I wish,” she rolled so her head was tilted his way, “My father was a bard, so nobody threw stones at us but I sure as Oblivion got used to sleeping in the Great Outdoors - and the Less Great Underground. And then this place has  _heating_. _In_ the room!”

He chuckled, keeping his hand where it was, but, now that it was just the two of them once more, he could feel something dark sitting in his gut.

Some part of him wanted to crush it away and just let them enjoy the moment, not ruin it again, not push how much this woman wanted to put up with.

_[Trust me, Jarvan. I won’t leave you.]_

“Hey, Shyv? Mind if I intrude on your pleasurable revelations?”

“It’d better be pretty fucking good,” she nevertheless hauled herself up, perched on her elbows and blinking openly at him.

He swallowed.

“I wanted to apologise.”

She blinked again.

“For how I behaved back there. I . . . I _have_ grown up very privileged and I guess . . . I mean. _Urgh._ ” He yanked on his hair, finally free of his helm, “Ever since arriving here, I’ve been jumpy as all hell, and you just haven’t given a single shit? And I was stupid, and got up on my high horse, and started that pointless fight.”

He sighed.

“And . . . I don’t have a right to judge you. Because your life has probably . . . has _definitely_ been shittier than mine, and gods know I have no ground to feel like that makes me somehow more intelligent than you. And . . . I am _really, truly_ sorry.”

He stared fixatedly at the floor, trying to ignore but instead registering every single shuffle as she shifted on the bed, sitting up and bringing her legs under her.

And then, because Shyvana was nothing if not contrary, she cleared her throat.

“Well, I mean, you _didn’t_ , really.”

He paused in his mental stew, turning to stare at him.

She rubbed her arms, ears flat, and without her various layers, he could almost see the rough, uneven texture to her arms, the one that seemed to break out over her skin whenever she was stressed.

“ _I_ started that stupid fight. You just made a comment, and I got all defensive. What you were saying made sense - I don’t know anything about war. I just sit on the sidelines and watch without giving a shit about it. You at least _care_ \- I’ve only looked out for me and my Father, and, well, it’s just looking out for Number One now.” She let a short, bitter laugh, “You . . . you _care_. Gods, you don’t _not_ care. Every single time there’s been someone in trouble, or in danger, you’ve just _helped_ them. I don’t fucking do that. Even in that god awful cart, you were in there because you refused to sit aside and watch people get hurt. I was there because I just got caught breaking the law and tried to fight my way out of it. At least your intentions were _noble_. So, yeah. I’m sorry too. You were right, and I got pissed about it, and that really wasn't fair to you.”

He blinked at her, mildly speechless.

“I . . . um, actually, I kind of disagree.”

There was a moment of silence and she snorted and tipped her head back.

“ _Really?_ ”

“Not like that, I just-!” he tried to protest, as she just laughed her head off, “About war - I think, no I _was_ right. But so were you. Stuff like that doesn’t just have a right or wrong answer . . . and of course different people have different choices. That’s why it was so stupid - we were fighting over something when we were both right, and we were just being dicks about it.”

She snorted, “Look at you, mentioning ‘dicks’.”

“Hush.”

She laughed again, ink flashing in the light as her shoulders shivered with each rumbling laugh.

After a moment, Jarvan felt his own gut rumble and he was soon joining in, deep laughs echoing against hers, head in his hands as his gut slowly began to ache.

“Ah . . .” Shyvana stared at the ceiling, “We are sort of dicks aren’t we? For Oblivion’s sake, who walks around in dragon bone armour and _isn’t_ one?”

“It _is_ quite attention seeking.”

Her head dropped against his back and he steadied, pushing to support her weight.

“Hey Jarvan?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t give a shit about a lot of people. But I do about you. So, err . . . thanks. For . . . um-“

“Sharing?”

“That works.”He chuckled lightly, seeking out her fingers with his own to entwine them.

“. . . Hey Shyv?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna test out that bath?”

Her long moan rumbled straight through her chest into his.

“Oh _gods_ yes.”

  

The golden light of sunset was peeking through the windows as both let out appreciative sighs, sinking into the hot water.

“Skyrim’s weather might be shit, but they know how to do steam baths . . .” Shyvana _purred_ , purple hair swirling all around like a big cloud of seaweed. Jarvan just let out a faint moan, inhaling the infused steam and exhaling as he let himself slide right down, water coasting around his neck. He hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but as the ends of his hair began drift over the water’s surface, he fingered the locks, dimly realising how much his short, military dictated hair cut had grown out.

After a bit of knocking knees, they managed to arrange themselves far more cohesively, Jarvan leaning against the edge of the bath and Shyvana stretched out, head against his chest. Like this, his head hung over her own and she stuck out her tongue at his smirking.

“Want me to comb your hair?”

“Please.”

“Shyvana? Saying please? Am I a ‘good influence?”

“Fuck off,” her dry tone was accompanied by a middle finger directed his way, and they both chuckled as he shuffled around a bit to look for the comb.

She sat forward slightly, and he began to run the fine-tooth piece through her tangles, the potions in the water doing wonders to the several months of forest that accumulated in her braids. She was humming lightly, something indistinguishable in Dunmeri, and he languidly reached out to light the nearest oil lamp, the edge of night beginning to override the sun. They remained there for almost an hour, legs and arms intertwined, skin going wrinkly from the gradually cooling water, muscles almost weeping from the respite. Absently, Jarvan began tracing his fingers over the dark tattoos on his companions back, the swirling runic patterning almost mesmerising, her body relaxed and smooth under his calloused fingers.

The water had fallen to a proper lack lustre lukewarm by the time she sat up, stretching with a yawn.

“We should probably get to sleep - we’ve got to track down this god damn Blade tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Try not to drown while I’m gone,” she winked at him, and he responded with a drowsy but very sincere middle finger her way.

He kept his eyes closed, hearing the patter of her bare feet against the tiles, water dripping out from her hair, as he just dipped his head under, rolling out his shoulders, and feeling actually relaxed in the first time in . . .

Damn.

It had been more than four months since he’d last been in the White City.

(It had been almost two and a half months since he’d been ambushed.)

He exhaled, bubbling the surface of the bath water.

(He wondered how his Father was . . .)

“Jarvan? You’re not actually drowning in there, are you?”He sat up, pulling his wet hair off his face.

“Hold your horses, I’m coming!”

Shyvana was curled up around a pillow by the time he arrived, face pressed into the fabric in a manner that should definitely result in suffocation. He dried himself off to the most minimal amount necessary, before gleefully dropping down beside her and almost wheezing at the sheer level of warmth emanating from Shyvana’s core. Experimentally, he reached out wrapped his fingers under her shirt.

“heeiiiAH!”

“You’re so warm . . .”

“And you’re FREEZING!”

She tried to wriggle free, but he just rolled over, closer, firmly wrapping himself around her and feeling her probably-not-natural body heat return circulation to all his extremities.

“Release me, you _asshole_.”

“Never in all the realms.”

She groaned, long and loudly, shifting slightly.

“ _Fine_. At least get in a position so that I have something to cling to.”

He obliged her, rolling onto his back so she could shuffle over to drop her head against his chest, his arms and legs still wrapped around her chest more securely than an octopus.

“Oh gods, I can feel my fingers again.”

“Stop being such a baby.”

He laughed, settling down, hair only mildly wet against the pillow.

(An actual fucking pillow, praise be to Akatosh, dear _Lord_ )

“Hey, Shyv, can I ask you something?” he mumbled, fingers tracing the inky lines across her shoulders. She let out a small hum, voice muffled by his chest.

His mouth twisted a little, “Why do you want to save the world? I mean, if I’ve learnt anything from today, it’s just reinforced that you’ve never really struck me as the type.”

She tensed, before letting out a short groan, rolling onto her back and blinking up at the sloping roof.

“I . . . don’t? Not really, anyway,” she held a hand up to the sky, turning it over and inspecting the rivelets of magika that shone through her skin, “but I do want to know what’s happening to me. Not to mention, I need to know why there are so many dragons.”

Her other hand, still caught under his neck, trembled slightly, and he reached up a hand to squeeze it.

“. . . Who was the dragon in Helgen?” he asked, voice soft, “What made her different from all the rest?”

Shyvana went rigid.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice was brittle, and had immediately fallen to being distinctly unwelcoming.

He lifted his up his head, offering a means to wriggle free. “Sorry.”

She tilted her head, but kept her hand where it was, turning over to drop her other other over his chest, squeezing.

“What about you? What’s kept you around?”

He smiled at the olive branch, moving his hands to pull along her scalp, “I already said, didn’t I? I owe you my life.”

She rolled her head to look at him seriously. “Yeah. You _said_ that.”

“Do you doubt my word?”

“A little bit.” She rolled over, arms crossed over his chest and placed her unnatural, fascinating eyes right before his own, “What about afterwards?”

“Hm?”

“What are you planning to do after this whole mess is over? Forgive me, but I think you’ll find a way to ‘save my life’

 in the interim.”

His hand stilled and his mouth pulled down.

“I . . . I haven’t thought about it.”

“Oh really?” a twinkled brightened in her eyes, “ _you_ , _not_ thinking about something?”

“Hush, you,” he twisted, trying to knock her off, but legs of solid muscle wrapped around his own and she beamed smugly as he quickly found her impossible dislodge. Rolling his eyes at her incorrigible personality, he settled back down, taking advantage of her position to feel as much of her internal furnace as possible, “. . . Maybe I just haven’t really processed an end. If the Thalmor’s are trying to resurrect dragons, that’s going to take a long time to fix. Not really a sort of time-frame for an ‘after’ space.”

She let out a small discontent rumble, “Urgh, I didn’t think of it that way. _Damn_.”

“What about you?” His own smiled strained slightly, “Will you keep going as you’ve been?”

“Maybe,” she hunkered lower, chin pressing right into the crevice between his ribs, “I think I want to explore more. Stop running. Maybe earn a few under the counter dollars along the way.”

Her finger ran over his arms, hovering over each and every scar, “. . . If . . . If you _do_ make plans . . . would I be in them?”

He tilted his head up, to find her eyes avoiding his own, unduly focused on the white marks trailing through his body hair like shattered glass.

He let his hand sink into her hair, for the first time being able to run through it without striking more knots than a ship’s rigging.

And he wondered.

If they did this, defeated the dragons, forgot about the Thalmors, and he was left, once more, to decide his fate.

And yet, whatever idle thought he pulled up, travelling the land, settling down, becoming a professional dungeon diving fool-

(Returning to Cyrodiil?)

he was pleasantly surprised to find his answer was the same.

“All of them,” he mumbled, mattress fast moulding around him and sleep tugging just as eagerly, “you’re in all of them.”

“Damn right I am.”

He chuckled lightly, tipping forward to sink his face into her hair. After a moment, she shuffled around slightly, arms wrapping around his chest and face buried in his shoulder.

“You know what’s kind of stupid?”

“Hm?” her voice was soft, sleepy, fingers absently running over his shoulders

“This is the first time we could sleep in different beds,” he mused, “It’s wonderfully heated - and south enough that you only need a bit anyway. I could sleep and wake up with circulation even without clinging to you.”

She paused, then pulled back deliberately, eyes aglow like simmering coals.

“Do you want to sleep in different beds?” her voice was cautious, wary, an animal preparing to raise its hackles.

His hands sought her shoulders out, pulling her in closer, near enough so he could press his lips against her temple.

“Not at all.”

Hands rested on his waist as she settled back down, curling up with her body against his and her head tucked under his chin.

“Good. Because you’re not going to.”His eyelids fluttered close, wrapped around her pulsing fire.

“Well, good then.”

“Mm. Sleep now.”His next very clever comeback was interrupted as her body slumped against, her soft rumbles, echoing in time with her heartbeat.

“. . . Hey Jarvan?”

“I’m _serious_ , Shyv.”

She snorted.

“Just wanted to say . . .” her voice slurred as she drifted off against him, “my life’s been a lot less shitty with you in it.”

And that thought kept him awake for an indecently long amount of time.

 

* * *

 

As the pair toasted some almost-but-not-quite-stale bread over the fireplace the next morning, the innkeeper opened the door, wielding a single letter, marked with a very alarmingly red lipstick kiss.

 

         Get your asses into the Ragged Flagon.

         We’ve found him.

 

* * *

“Okay, so you’ll probably know him when you see him - he still wears clothes he probably took out of Valenwood. If that’s not good enough, look for the hair - he’s got this enormous bushy ponytail that wouldn’t look out of place on the end of a paintbrush.”

Fizz stopped right in an archway, peering through.

The two stared at him.

“Anything else?” Jarvan hedged and the yordle blinked up at him.

“Sarah says, and I’m direct quoting here: ‘Don’t bring him back to the Guild - he’s stabbed enough of us for us to appreciate the message’.”

With that wonderful parting note, the thief vanished back into the dark, not doubt seeking the market above, purses ripe for fishing.

 Jarvan just sighed and extended his hand.

“You ready for this?”

Shyvana wrapped their hands together, firm.

“Fuck no, but let’s do this anyway.”

They heard him before they spotted him.

Sure enough, the Blade was squatting in a lone abandoned corner of the Ratway, ragged pants stained with the general slime and filth of the cisterns, and nothing but a scruffy blanket over his chest. An immense gourd swung between his fingers, and empty bottles littered the cobblestones around him.

Jarvan struggled not to gag at the stench of alcohol, somehow overriding the gentle muck of the tunnels. “Y-Yasuo?”

“Hm?” The mer tipped his head up, eyes bloodshot, “look, _bucko,_ like I said to all your little thieving friends, I’ have no interested in moving my arse. So, run along and try not to lose your hands, ‘kay?”

“We need you to come with us,” he managed to cough out, standing tall “the Thalmors are looking-”

The man scoffed, hard.

“Ptuh, _Thalmors_. The whole world’s gone crazy! _Talos_ this,  _Thalmors_ that. The End is upon us and none of you lot can even agree on who’s the most to blame!”

Jarvan exhaled stiffly, before glancing around and taking a stab in the dark.

“We know you’re a Blade,” he spoke in crisp Bosmeri, “and we know the Thalmor want you dead.”Yasuo’s eyes drifted back up, a petulant look to his face.

“So what?” he demanded, likewise switching to his native tongue.  “Thalmors ain’t gonna scare me out of here. Trust me kid, it’s not them I’m running from.”

 Jarvan swallowed. “We need to find a relic in Markarth about the World-Eater, and you’re supposedly the only one who knows how to find it.”

“Damn straight,” he took another swig, “and I don’t give two _shits_. S-sh-o here I’ll _sit_ and here I’ll _shtay_ until everything goes up in flames.”

He leant forward, squinting hard at them, “Now if you wouldn’t mind, kindly _fuck off_ and leave me to my hangover.”

“Please, we need-”

He took too long.

Shyvana marched past him, stuck her finger into the Wood Elf’s face, irritation rife through her expression.

“Listen you, you drunk _fuck_ ,” she snapped in Common, “I have put up with enough _shit_ this past month, the last thing I need is you sitting on your ass instead of coming to Irelia-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he drifted forward, once more in Common, finger pressing up over Shyvana’s mouth and breath right in her face, if the involuntary sneeze was an indication. As the alcohol wafted over, even Jarvan had to cough slightly.

His eyes remained bloodshot.

“What’sh this about the Blade Dancer?”

“She’s looking for you.” Shyvana explained, long suffering, “She took my horn, and she won’t give it back until I bring you, because she’s so fucking confident that since I’m ‘the Dragonborn’, I have to-”

“Dragonborn, huh?” He slurred, leaning back, letting his hand drop into the raggedy bundle he’d been sleeping against.

And in a flash of steel, Shyvana went flying past Jarvan, an immense sword up to her neck, and her back against the old walls.

Yasuo pressed up hard, eyes stone serious.

Jarvan scrambled for his weapon, preparing to strike a kick into the Bosmer’s back.

“That’s quite a claim, _Dunmer_.”

Barely reacting, he yanked her forward and directed her into Jarvan. The collision sent them both to the ground, but Jarvan inhaled deeply, fighting the winding. They had barely crashed to the ground before both rolled up to their feet, Jarvan unclipping his lance as Shyvana’s hands burst into fire.

He just ducked their strikes with embarrassing ease, danced forwards and swung down.

A gale ricocheted from his blade, much to the shrieks of the various Untouchables peering out from the crazies in the ratway, carving a clean path through the canals and slamming them back into the old foundations, air getting yanked out from their lungs in burning efficiency.

“Forget it, kids,” deftly, he pointed the immense blade at Shyvana, tip glinting, “you’re still a few decades too young to get me. Back to business. You.” 

Shyvana snarled from her knees, struggling to regain her breath.

Her eyes blazed gold and hell fire and Jarvan realised he was disturbingly mesmerised.

“Describe Irelia.”

“Wood Elf, dark hair,” Jarvan accepted her hand up, his own lungs heaving from the impromptu tornado, “thinks the Thalmors are resurrecting the dragons to worsen the civil war-”

“Yeah, yeah, but what’s she _like_?”

“Up herself,” Jarvan almost face palmed and Shyvana scowled, defensive, “. . . determined. Austere. Smells of blood.”

Yasuo stared at her for a moment, before scoffing and sheathing the blade, “Yeah, that’d make sense.”

Jarvan started slightly, hand on Shyvana’s shoulder.

“You . . . believe us?”

“Sounds like Irelia,” he just shook his head, “she’d definitely be the one to blame the Thalmors for all this mess.”

Almost lazily, but with surprising skill considering the booze still on his breadth, he circled her.

“So, the Dragonborn huh? Another one from Vvardenfall - sure that’ll please the Tribunal. Then again, they don’t seem to know anything about this. Too busy trying to protect their legacies, no doubt. Tell me, how many dragons have you killed so far? How many Shouts do you know? Do you find learning from Word Walls to be addictive or terrifying? Are you-?”

“Let’s just get back to Riverwood.” Jarvan interrupted the rapidly bright eyed mer, who just blinked at him.

“Oh yeah. Right. Let’s go ‘meet up’.”

He slid his immense sword back into its sheath, picking up the scant belongings.

“I’d imagine you have your own means of getting there? If not, I’m sure the stable is a good place to start - no one to see, or say goodbye to?”

“The message from the Guild was ‘don’t come with him’.” Shyvana offered, voice slightly detached from the veritable one eighty in interest.

Yasuo let out an amused hm.

“Oh yeah. If you see him again, tell that archer I said sorry. But, in my defence, the anchor was definitely compensating for something.”

He marched off, and they almost fell in step behind him, slightly tongue tied at all this enthusiasm.

Shyvana cleared her throat.

“Also, do you know about a Blade named Kayn-”

“Don’t like him, his master, his blade nor his smile.”

Shyvana sent Jarvan a sparkling look.

“I like him already.”

 

Yasuo led them out to the stables, where, sure enough, Jarvan’s horse (purchased from a small farm in the tips of Hjaalmarch) was waiting, saddled and ready. The cart had been replaced by a wagon, all of their goods were carefully arranged in crates - save for a few stay gold pieces, and one very nice but ultimately cheap locket - a second horse joining the first, and both all saddled up to the wagon and ready to leave.

For pity’s sake, the Guild couldn’t have screamed ‘Get the fuck out of our city’ louder if they had tried.

“Well, this is all very well and good,” Yasuo swung himself up onto the new horse, Jarvan on his own and Shyvana crouched in the wagon, “but we should get going was soon possible - we don’t want to run into any complications.”

“Are there going to be a lot of those?” Shyvana asked wearily, as Jarvan urged his horse onward. With a satisfying creak of wooden wheels and axels, the two horses began their departure from the lake city, wagon trundling cheerfully behind them (and guards looking everywhere but).

Yasuo was carefully inspecting his sword was in an easily accessible part of his saddle.

“I’m a wanted Blade, Dragonborn. Any moment I’m in the open is a moment for a complication to happen.”

“Then we’ll stick to the side roads - it’s better if we don’t let anyone see us, even in the Winter’s Claw territory,” Jarvan waited until they’d crested a hill, before turning the carriages more into the trees, out of sight from any guards.

Yasuo blinked, frowned and sat back.

“Wait . . . side roads . . . Ah-! I think I might have forgotten something.”

“Really?” Shyvana tipped her head back with a groan. “What else did you have to forget?”

Around them, the trees all aggressively shook their leaves as the very ground trembled.

“Stop right there!” Jarvan hauled the group to a stop as a bundle of golden-brown positively _lurched_ out of the brush, “If you take Master Yasuo one more step, I’ll _bury_ you!”

Now standing determinedly before them was a teenage Khajit, tail fully poofed and ears ramrod straight, her simple red robe billowing its sleeves in the wind.

Yasuo arched an eyebrow, from his comfortable perch atop the horse, unharmed, “I appreciate the sentiment, kit, but I think you might have misjudged the situation.”

The Khajit blinked, inspected the small party of a thoroughly amused Imperial, a thoroughly unimpressed Dunmer and Yasuo’s well practised arched eyebrow. 

Her tail flickered.

Her ears pressed down, and she immediately straightened up, hand flying to the back of his head.

“Ahhaha, I think I made a mistake. Never mind, farewell, I’ll go now-”

Her hasty escape was interrupted by a sharp gust of wind that blew her robe’s scruff right into Yasuo’s grip and he dragged her up behind him.

“Now Little Sparrow, mind explaining why you came to save me _precisely_ when no more guards where around?”

“Hehe . . .”

“What if I’d been executed whilst they were watching? Would you have intervened then?”

“It’s not my fault everyone in Skyrim is racist!” she shifted around to be better astride the horse, tail once more poofed with indignation, “And _yes_ I would have rescued you. _Not_ that you deserve it.”

“So, who’s this?” Jarvan intervened and the Khajit spun around to send him a suspicious once over. Yasuo dropped a hand on her furry head, the ruffling knocking her stone headpiece askew.

“All right, Dragonborn and friend, I’d like you to meet Taliyah, the thing-i-almost-forgot. She’s going to be around me until I can find out how to toss her back into Elswyr.”

“Preferably sooner rather than later, you old hobo,” she snarked, grumbling as the comment earnt her another head rustle.

In the wagon, Shyvana had rolled over, and Jarvan turned as her heavily accented Ta’agra was directed at the Khajit.

The small girl positively hurled herself around, eyes shining at the sound of her native tongue.

“So where did she come from?” he asked the Blade, as the two girls nattered away.

(It was good for Shyvana to interact with other girls. Probably.)

“Who knows - but hey, she hauled me out of a snow drift so that’s something right?” he grinned, “Don’t worry - it’ll be fine.”

 

It was fine for exactly one day.

They were still deep in the heart of the Rift when a bandit camp spotted them, an alarm sounding and the sound of mounted cavalry making hot pursuit.

As he urged the horses to go fast, Jarvan just blinked at their companion.

_“Really?”_

“What can I say? I’m a highly valued individual.”

“You want me to take them?” Shyvana called, already getting into a couch. Yasuo glanced back.

“Don’t waste your energy, Dagonbron - Sparrow, you can handle this much.”

“Got it!”

Lithely as only a Khajit could be, Taliyah flipped off the horse, landing carefully on her feet and robes swirling around her, unflinching against their approaching manic pursuers.

Jarvan twisted. “Should we-?”

“She can take care of herself, keep moving!”

The approaching bandits were beginning to pull back arrows. She inhaled carefully, dropping into a stance.

In quick, twitchy movements, her hands slammed together, and she drove them down. Before her, the earth exploded out into a sea of stones, tearing apart and folding in on itself. 

Screams echoed through the trees as men slipped between the cracks, crushed between the pieces, dragged down under, trees toppling down around them.

Jarvan manoeuvred his horse through the landscape as carefully as he could at the speeds they were going, knowing Shyvana was keeping watch.

“What’s happening?” He called over the wind and she just exhaled.

“Hey . . . that ‘bury’ comment wasn’t an exaggeration, was it?”

“Not at all,” Yasuo glanced down at a fast approaching rumble, the teen easily catching up to them, coasting long the surface on a boulder like a surfer, clothes whipping and movements carving up the ground, “here.”

A sharp gust of wind lifted her up into his extended hand, hauling her up behind him.

Shyvana turned, probably complimenting her in Ta’agra. Taliyah beamed, turning and nattering on in the desert tongue to her master.

Jarvan just shook his heading in amazement, “Is there any language you don’t speak?”

She tilted her head back to her, “I don’t know fuck all about dialects. And Tamrieliec was common enough in Valenwood that I never bothered with Bosmeri.”

He nodded, before having a sharp moment of realisation.“Wait . . . So back in the Cisterns-?”

“Still have no idea what you and he were talking about.”

He barked a laugh and she scowled, turning to the pair.

“This is gonna be a pain, if we need to get all the way to Markarth - with a _second_ Blade to boot.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Yasuo shrugged and offered no solution.

Jarvan just sighed as Shyvana’s eyes went narrow.

Taliyah clapped her hands together, startling them all.

“I’ve got a great idea!”

 

“Welcome, travellers of Skyrim!” the flamboyant Bosmer positively twirled his way to the height of the caravan, golden cloak spiralling around him, “And behold, the witty, the dazzling, the soon-to-be-married Rakan!”

The sour faced woman at his side sent him an even sourer look and opened her mouth.

Rakan swept over to her, blocking her mouth.

“Unfortunately!” he spoke, far too loud than necessary, “My beloved, the night to my day, branch of my leaves, lost her tongue and thus _cannot speak_ , after a foul run in with some conniving Kha-” his eyes double glanced on Taliyah and her golden-brown pricked ears, “Thalmors! Black-hearted Thalmors took my beloved’s tongue!”

Even said beloved sent him a look displaying a great display of disbelief and general lack of glib.

He beamed back anyway, relentless.

They all turned to Taliyah.

She grinned, “They’re heading to Markarth _and_ making a detour through Riverwood.”

As Shyvana just groaned beside him, Jarvan put his hands together, over his face.

Oh boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Include Yasuo and Not Taliyah? INCONCEIVABLE!
> 
> MATRICIDE IS OFFICIALLY MY LONGEST POSTED FIC YET HA HA (Wheeze)
> 
> So, quick apology for how late this chapter is - I forgot how much restarting work invites writer's block, and then I got over it, but only when my assessments are here so now I'm buried in those (and this is my cry for help please save me, the food is running out)
> 
> I have posted another short story (The First Lesson) since my last update so I invite you all to go check that (it features smol jarvan so it is definitely a Good Use of My Time)
> 
> I really am sorry the update for this has been so unreliable - because I do want you all to enjoy this, I'm asking what you guys would like? From now, I've caught up to what I've written in advance so I'm pretty much writing a chapter from scratch each time. Would you prefer the updates to still happen now-ish and be more infrequent like this one? Or a big hiatus where I can write up a bunch more and then resume the weekly/second weekly updates?
> 
> Thank you all so much for making it this far! Chaton loves you all so much !!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Am I crazy for starting a WIP? Maybe, but let's try and pull this off anyway.
> 
> Jarvan and Shyvana is all game because they are my League bias.  
> I make a habit of updating friday nights, but depending on how available my Brain makes itself, it might not be every week.
> 
> I am usually lurking on tumblr at @chatonnerie


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